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D  B    M  O  L  A  I : 

THE 

LAST  OF  THE  MILITARY  GRAXD  MASTERS 
OF  THE  ORDER  OF  TEMPLAR  KXIGHTS, 


A  ROMANCE  OF  HISTORY,  • 

BY  EDMUND  FLAGQ 

AUTHOR  OF    "the  prime   MINISTER,"    "THE   FAR  WEST,"    "FRANCES   OF  VALOIS," 
"the  HOWARD  QUEEN,"   "  VENICE  :  THE  CITY  BY  THE  SEA,"  ETC. 


"  De  Molai  :  THE  Last  of  the  Military  Grand  Masters  of  the  Order  of 
Templar  Knights."  dealing  with,  the  persecution  and  final  suppression  of  the  Order 
of  Knights  Templar,  is  a  powerful  and  intensely-  interesting  historical  rqmar.ce  of  the 
Fourteenth  Century-,  the  action  mainly  taking  place  at  the  court  of  Philip  the  Fourth 
of  France.  The  novel  will  be  especij^lly  prized  by  the  ^Masonic  Brotherhood,  as  it 
gives  the  history  of  tr,e  Kr.ighcs  Tempiar  from  the  foundation  of  the  Order  to  its 
overthrow.  There  is  an  ab.'.ndar.ce  of  picturesque  description.  Jacques  de  Molai, 
the  noble  Grand  Master  of  the  Templar  Knighis  ;  Philip  the  Fourth  and  Blanche 
of  Artois  are  the  leading  characters ,  but  Adrian  de  Marigni,  !^Iarie  Morfontaine  and 
Pope  Clement  fill  important  roles.  Marie's  love  for  Adrian  and  the  mad  interposition 
of  the  Countess  of  ^Slarche  form  the  underplot  of  the  novel  and  furnish  the  emotional 
element.  The  intrigues  and  corruption  of  the  French  court  are  fully  set  forth,  and  the 
reader  is  shown  a  royal  bridal  fete.  The  romance  is  strikingly  dramatic,  and  many 
of  the  scenes  are  highly  impressive.  "  De  ISIolai  "  will  be  read  with  vast  interest  and 
enjoj-ment  alike  by  ail  Templar  Knights,  the  whole  Masonic  Fratemitj-,  scholars  and 
the  public. 


PHILADELPHIA; 
T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROT.HERS; 
306    CHESTNUT  STEEET. 


T.  B. 


COPYRrQHTI 

PETERSON  &  BROTHERS. 

1888. 


"De  Molai:  the  Last  of  the  31ilitaTy  Grand  Masters  of  the  Order  of 
Templar  Knights"  is  a  historical  romance  of  the  reign  of  Philip  the 
Fourth  of  France.  It  gives  a  graphic  picture  of  the  court  of  that  unscru- 
pulous and  ambitions  monarch,  with  its  political  iyitrigues,  its  flirtations, 
its  brilliant  fUes  and  its  flagrant  injustice.  Paris  in  the  Fourteenth  Cen- 
tury is  vividly  sketched,  and  there  are  numerous  descriptions  of  the  pal- 
aces, castles,  abbeys,  cathedrals  and  prisons  of  that  turbulent  time,  all  of 
which  have  the  element  of  picturesqueness.  The  strong  plot  deals  mainly 
with  the  efforts  made  by  the  King  of  France,  aided  by  Pope  Clement  the 
Fifth  and  Blanche  of  Artois,  Countess  of  Marche,  for  the  suppression  of 
the  powerful  and  wealthy  Order  of  Templar  Knights  and  the  success  which 
ultimately  crowned  those  efforts.  The  main  and  most  impressive  figure  in 
the  romance  is  by  all  odds  Jacqua  de  Molai,  the  aged  and  self-sacrificing 
Grand  Master  of  the  Order,  and  the  lofty  virtues  of  his  noble  character 
stand  out  boldly  amid  the  general  corruption  of  the  age.  A  full  and  reli- 
able, as  well  as  very  readable  history  of  the  Templar  Knights  is  given, 
which  will  make  the  book  highly  interesting  and  valuable  to  members  of 
the  iVasonic  Brotherhood  everywhere.  The  rivalry  of  Blanche  of  Artois 
and  Marie  Morfontaine  for  the  love  of  Adrian  de  Mar igni  forms  the  sub- 
plot and  adds  vastly  to  the  absorbing  interest  of  the  skilfully  constructed 
novel.  3Iany  of  the  scenes  are  intensely  dramatic,  and  an  exceedingly 
thrilling  incident  is  the  compact  between  the  king  and  Bertrand  de  Goth 
in  the  Abbey  of  St.  Jean  d'Angely,  while  a  thunderstorm  is  in  progress. 
But  the  entire  romance  is  worthy  of  more  than  ordinary  attention ,  and 
that  it  will  score  a  brilliant  success  seems  almost  certain. 


TO 

DE  MOLAY  MOUNTED  COMMANDERY, 

OF 

THE    CITY    OF  WASHINGTON, 
THIS  VOLUME  IS  INSCRIBED, 
IN  MEMORY  OF 
THE  LAST  OF  THE  MILITARY  GRAND  MASTERS 
OF  THE  TEMPLE, 
BY  WHOSfi  ILLUSTRIOUS  NAME 
THAT  COMMANDERY  AND  THIS  VOLUME 
ARE  HONORED. 


(13) 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter.  Page. 

I.  THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  D'ANGELY   23 

II.  PARIS  IN  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY.  ,  ,  .  50 

III.  THE  BRIDAL  FETE   58 

IV.  THE  HALF  HOUR  AFTER  MIDNIGHT.    .    .  ,  ,  77 

T.  THE  lo^t:rs.               =  83 

Yl.  THE  ROYAL  HUNT.   .  ,                            ,  ,  .  ,  92 

YII.  THE  ABBEY  OF  MAUBUISSON   102 

VIII.  THE  LETTER.    Ill 

IX.  THE  VISION.   ,  .  ,  .  Ill: 

X.  THE  MISSIVE.   .   .   ,  ,  ,  121 

XI.  THE  PALACE  OF  THE  TEMPLE.    .    ,   125 

XII.  THE     PRINCE,     THE     PONTIFF     AND  THE 

KNIGHT.              e   133 

XIII.  THE  TEMPLARS  IN  PARIS.         a  ......  .  149 

XIV.  THE  WARRIOR- MONKS   159 

XV.  THE  DUNGEON  OF  THE  GRAND  CHATELET.  .  171 

XVI.  THE  KING  AND  THE  GRAND  MASTER,   .   .  .  183 

XVII.  THE  REFORM     198 

(15) 


16  CONTENTS. 

XVm.  THE  FAEEWELL  204 

XIX.  THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  HEIRESS  215 

XX.  THE  ARREST.  .  c  .......  .  230 

XXI.  THE  CASTLE  07  CllINON.  .  .  .  .  .  238 

XXn.  THE  COMPROMISE.   251 

XXIII.  THE  GAUNTLET  261 

XXIV.  THE  FIELD  OF  ST.  ANTOINET  282 

'   XXV.  THE  GRAND  MASTER  IN  NOTRE  DAME.  .-  .  .  294 

XXVI.  THE    POLITIC    PRINCE    AND    THE  POLITIC 

PRELATE   307 

XXVII.  THE  COUNCIL  OF  VIENNE  .....316 

XXVIIL  THE  PEOPLE  OF  PARIS  .326 

XXIX.  THE  MARTYRDOM.   344 

-  XXX.  THE  RETRIBUTION.  357 

-  XXXI.  THE  CONCLUSION   .  366 


PREFACE. 


rr^ HE  following  pages  are  designed  to  illustrate 
a  remarkable  era  in  the  annals  of  France 
and  of  Europe,  and  to  recite  events  and  portray 
personages  that  rendered  it  thus  remarkable. 

With  the  single  exception  of  the  Templar  epi- 
sode in  "  Ivanhoe,"  the  writer  recalls  no  attempt 
in  English  fiction  to  depict  the  character,  much 
less  to  outline  the  history  and  career,  or  to  detail 
the  fearful  fate  of  that  wonderful  Brotherhood  of 
Warrior-Monks,  of  the  Order  of  Templar  Knights, 
whose  fame  for  two  centuries  resounded  through- 
out Christendom ;  and  which,  as  a  peaceful  Affili- 
ation, has  existed  to  this  day. 

The  writer  in  these  pages  has  endeavored  to 
convey  as  much  of  information  relative  to  the 
Order  of  the  Temple  as  could  be  gathered  by  faith- 
ful examination  and  careful  collation  of  most 

(17) 


18 


PREFACE. 


authentic  records,  consistently  with  that  exciting 
incident  and  rapid  action  indispensable  to  the 
dramatic  interest  of  even  an  historical  novel. 
Facts  and  dates  may,  therefore,  he  trusts,  be  re- 
lied on  as  correct;  while  the  reader  may  indulge 
the  reflection,  also,  that  each  one  of  the  many 
names  that  occur  in  this  dark  chronicle  of  strange 
crimes  is  that  of  an  individual  who  actually  had 
existence  in  the  age  and  country  specified,  and 
whose  character  and  career  were  actually  those 
therein  ascribed  to  him.  The  writer  has  but 
taken  him  down  for  a  time  from  his  niche  in  the 
Historic  Fane;  breathed  into  his  nostrils  the 
breath  of  life ;  placed  in  his  head  a  human  brain 
and  into  his  breast  a  human  heart  and  set  them 
in  motion;  and  then  suffered  him  to  act  agreeably 
to  the  dictates  of  the  one  and  the  impulses  of  the 
other,  in  order  to  work  out,  as  best  he  might,  the 
destiny  History  has  assigned  him. 

Highland  View,  YiRGiNiAi 
September,  1888. 


MITE  TO  ILLUSTRATED  TITLE. 


THE  Illustrated  Title  Page  presents  tlie  Grand 
Master  of  Templar  Knights,  in  the  mantle 
of  his  Order,  bearing  the  Abacus,  or  baton  of  his 
office,  -which  in  the  peaceful  Affiliation  of  to-day  is 
the  same  it  was  more  than  six  centuries  ago. 
There  is.  and  can  be.  but  one  such  sceptre  of  au- 
thority in  the  Grand  Encampment  of  the  United 
States  ;  and  that  now  in  use  was  presented  by 
Most  Eminent  Grand  Master  Hubbard  on  retiring 
from  office  nearly  thirty  years  ago.  accompanied 
by  the  statement  that  "  the  mystic  characters, 
and  the  mottoes,  and  the  general  appearance  are 
in  strict  accordance  with  the  baton  used  by  our 
Martyr  Grand  Master.  James  De  Molay." 

The  mantle  prescribed  by  the  Eule  of  St.  Ber- 
nard, as  part  of  the  Templar  garb  in  Priory,  was 
required  to  be  white,  in  order  that,  in  the  words 
of  the  Saint  of  Clairvaux_.  those  who  have  cast 
behind  them  a  dark  life  may  be  reminded,  that 
they  are  thenceforth  to  commend  themselves  to 

^19j 


20  NOTE  TO  ILLUSTRATED  TITLEo 


their  Creator  by  a  pure  and  white  life."  Some 
years  later,  a  red  eight-pointed  cross,  the  Templar 
Cross,  on  the  left  shoulder  of  the  mantle,  was  pre- 
scribed by  Pope  Eugenius,  as  a  symbol  of  mar- 
tyrdom. 

On  each  side  of  the  Grand  Master  stands  a 
Knight  Templar  in  similar  garb,  bearing  the  bat- 
tle-banner of  the  Temple,  the  terrible  Beauseant, 
alike  the  war-cry  of  the  Templar  and  the  name  of 
his  ensign — half  black,  half  white  — "  which 
means,"  says  the  old  chronicler,  Jacques  De  Vitry, 
in  the  Gallic  iowgxiQ  Bien-seant  (well-becoming), 
because  the  Knights  are  fair  and  favorable  to  friends 
of  Christ,  but  black  and  menacing  to  his  foes." 

There  is  another  ensign  associated  with  the 
Temple — the  red  Passion  Cross  on  a  white  field, 
with  the  legend  of  Constantine,  "In  hoc  signo 
vincesr 

Very  different  from  the  Templar  s  garb  of  the^ 
cloister,  as  a  monk,  though  with  light  mail  on  his 
limbs,  and  spurs  at  his  heels,  and  sword  at  his 
side,  was  his  full  panoply  of  war  as  a  Knight, 
when,  clad  in  steel  from  head  to  foot,  with 
the  beaver  of  his  helmet  up  and  visor  down,  he 
bestrode  a  powerful  steed,  steel-protected,  like: 
himself — with  heavy  cross-hilted  sword  on  thigh, 


NOTE  TO  ILLUSTRATED  TITLE;  21 


and  ponderous  battle-axe  at  saddle-bow,  he  grasped 
with  one  mailed  hand  his  chain  bridle,  and  with 
the  other  a  lance  "like  a  weavers  beam." 

At  the  upper  corners  of  the  Title  Page  is  the 
Templar  shield ;  and  the  feet  of  the  supporting 
Knights  rest  on  the  Templar  Cross  of  the  Beau- 
seant  and  mystic  Abacus.  Above  all  is  seen  the 
Passion  Cross  of  the  Templar's  faith,  triumphant 
over  the  Saracen  Crescent;  while  below,  sustain- 
ing all,  are  beheld  those  grand  words  of  the 
Hebrew  monarch  which  open  the  115th  Psalm  : 
Xi)t  unto  us,  0  Lord,  not  unto  us,  hut  unto  Tluj 
name  give  glory'' — which  was  the  triumph-hymn 
of  the  Temple,  as  it  was,  and  is,  also,  the  mag- 
nificent anthem  of  their  church,  and  was  raised 
by  the  victorious  warrior-priests  on  many  a  bloody 
field;  for,  "always,  and  on  every  field,"  says 
Addison,  "was  borne  the  Templar  Altar  for  Mass, 
in  special  charge  of  the  Guardian  of  the  Chapel." 
Strange  association  of  religion  with  slaughter ! 
On  a  field  burthened  with  the  slain  and  drenched 
with  their  blood,  mailed  forms,  at  a  signal,  sink 
meekly  down ;  and,  kneeling  on  human  corpses, 
raise  mailed  hands  incarnadined  with  gore,  and 
give  the  glory  of  their  fearful  acts  to  the  great 
Creator  of,  alike^  victor  and  vanquished ! 


22  NOTE  TO  ILLUSTRATED  TITLE. 


But  thus  has  it  ever  been,  even  from  that  earli- 
est of  triumphal  hymns — that  of  Miriam,  four 
thousand  years  ago,  praising  the  Lord  who  had 
^'triumphed  gloriously,"  down  through  the  centu- 
ries, to  the  latest  bulletin  of  victory,  "  by  the  grace 
of  God,"  from  the  latest  field  of  the  dead  ! 


As  a  peaceful  Affiliation,  the  power  of  the  Tem- 
ple, ai  regards  membership,  far  exceeds,  at  this 
date,  that  of  the  palmiest  day  of  its  military  pride. 
In  the  United  States  alone  it  numbers,  by  official 
returns,  more  than  70,000  Knights,  in  nearly  800 
commanderies ;  while  in  Europe,  and  elsewhere, 
the  aggregate,  though  less,  is  very  large.  The 
dying  words  of  the  martyred  De  Molai,  six  cen- 
turies ago,  are  strangely  verified :  "  I,  indeed,  perish, 
but  my  beloved  Order  will  live ! "  And  now,  in 
distant  Iowa,  then  a  wilderness  in  an  undiscovered 
land,  there  are  more  than  50  commanderies,  and 
nearly  4,000  Templar  Knights  !  The  aggregate  of 
Royal  Arch  and  Master  Masons,  subordinate  to  the 
Temple,  approximates  800,000  in  the  United 
States. 


DE    MO  LA  I: 

THE 

LAST  OF  THE  MILITARY  GRAND  MASTERS 
OF  THE  ORDER  OF  TEMPLAR  KNIGHTS. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAX  d'aXGELY. 

i^rriHE  traveller  wants  liis  horse  P' 
X     ''^Vants  wliat?^' 
"Wants  his  horse."' 

"  Holy  St.  Benedict  I—his  horse  at  this  time  of  the 
night,  and  snch  a  night ! 

He  wants  his  horse,"'  reiterated  the  slipshod  servant- 
maid,  standing  pertinaciously  at  the  door  half- ajar. 

'*  Get  you  gone,  you  brainless  baggage  ! — to  bed  with 
you! "'  shouted  the  old  man. 

Tlie  girl  disappeared  and  the  door  closed. 

"  His  horse,  indeed,  on  a  night  like  tliis  I  "'  soliloquized 
the  host  of  the  Bois  St.  Jean  d'Angely,  resuming  his  seat 
by  the  blazing  lire  of  wood,  which  roared  up  the  vast 
throat  of  the  stone  chimney.    "  That  foolish  Gascon  girl 


24 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  d'ANGELY. 


is  getting  more  and  more  foolish  every  day.  Just  as 
everybody  is  going  to  bed,  lo!  in  she  rushes,  half-asleep, 
and  shouts — 'The  traveller  wants  his  horse!'  Out  on 
the  fool!" 

The  old  clock  that  stood  in  the  corner  struck  tbe  half 
hour  after  ten.  The  wind  howled  down  the  chimney 
and  wailed  in  the  crannies,  and  shrieked  through  the 
key-holes,  and  raved  around  the  corners  of  the  old  stone 
mansion  and  absolutely  roared,  like  a  huge  organ-pipe, 
along  the  vast  forest  of  St.  Jean  d'Angely,  on  the  skirts 
of  which  it  stood. 

It  was  the  night  of  the  5th  day  of  August,  1305.  St. 
Jean  d'Angely  was  a  small  village  of  France,  in  Gascony, 
in  the  ancient  province  of  Saintonge,  in  the  department 
•  of  the  Lower  Charente  and  the  diocese  of  the  Saintes.  It 
stood  on  the  outskirts  of  an  extensive  forest,  known  as 
tlie  forest  of  St.  Jean  d'Angely,  nearly  midway  between 
Poitiers  and  Bordeaux. 

It  was  a  wild  night, — as  dark  as  Erebus;  and  the  wind 
'howled,  and  shrieked,  and  raved,  and  roared,  and  wailed, 
and  whistled;  and,  from  time  to  time,  the  rain  dashed 
furiously  against  the  casements,  and  the  thunder  rumbled 
in  the  distance. 

"  Man  and  boy,  I've  lived  on  this  spot  full  five  and 
seventy  years,"  muttered  the  old  man,  cowering  over  the 
fire,  "  and  never  have  I  known  a  night  like  this.  My, 
it's  almost  as  cold  as  winter,  and  this  is  only  August! " 
he  added,  stretching  his  withered  hands  over  the  genial 
blaze.  "  Wants  his  horse,  a  night  like  this !  "  he  con- 
tinued, after  a  pause,  with  a  faint  laugh.   "  Wonder  who 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  d'AXGELY. 


25 


lie  is?  He  comes  from  the  North, — perhaps  from  Poi- 
tiers,— perhaps  from  Paris,  and  seems  to  be  a  traveller 
on  a  journey.  Well — well,  he  can't  leave  before  morn- 
ing, nor  then,  either,  unless  the  stoim  abates;  and  it 
Avill  go  hard  if  I  doirt  discover  who  he  may  be.  So  I'll 
e'en  to  bed.    Everybody  sleeps." 

The  old  man  rose,  and  having  taken  heed  to  the  safety 
of  the  fire,  took  up  his  lamp,  and  was  about  tottering 
from  the  room,  when  he  was  arrested  by  the  noise  of  a 
heavy  tread  in  the  apartment  above,  which,  descending 
the  creaking  staircase,  evidently  drew  nigh.  The  next 
moment  the  door  was  flung  wide,  and,  upon  the  thresh- 
old, the  traveller  of  whom  he  had  spoken  appeared. 
■  He  was  a  man  of  apparently  forty, — tall,  large,  and 
powerfidly  built.  His  eyes  were  dark  and  penetrating, 
his  hair  black  and  closely  cut,  and  on  his  lip  w^as  a  thick 
moustache.  His  air  was  lofty,  and  his  bearing  that  of 
one  accustomed  to  command.  Energy,  enterprise  and 
indomitable  will  were  traced  on  his  thin,  compressed 
lips,  and  in  the  lines  upon  his  broad  and  swarthy  brow. 
And,  yet,  with  all  the  pride  and  decision  of  his  aspect, 
and  all  else  that  might  be  deemed  repulsive,  there  w^as 
that  about  him  which  warranted  the  judgment  that  pro- 
nounced him  "the  handsomest  man  in  Europe."  His 
garb  7/as  a  close  travelling  dress  of  dark  cloth,  confined 
by  a  broad  leathern  belt  around  his  waist,  from  which 
hung  a  heavy  sword.  Over  this  was  a  cloak  of  scarlet, 
lined  Avith  fur,  and  bearing  a  huge  cape,  which,  like  a 
second  cloak,  descended  half-way  to  the  heels.  The 
cloak  was  secured  by  a  golden  clasp  on  the  right  shoulder, 


26 


THE   ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  d'ANGELY. 


in  a  manner  to  leave  tbe  arm  at  liberty  to  handle  the 
sword,  while,  on  the  left  side,  it  was  tucked  up  above 
the  sword,  and  behind  hung  loosely  in  heavy  folds  nearly 
to  the  ground.  A  velvet  cap  ornamented  with  lace,  over 
which  was  a  kind  of  hood  with  a  broad  cushion  on  the 
top,  called  a  chaperon^  and  a  tail  hauging  down  behind, 
protected  the  head.  On  his  feet  were  boots  with  pointed 
toes.  The  lace  upon  the  cap  and  the  fur  upon  the  cloak 
of  scarlet  cloth,  as  well  as  the  length  of  the  toes  of  the 
boots  and  the  size  of  the  chaperon^  indicated  the  wearer 
to  be  a  person  of  distinction. 

At  this  formidable  apparition  on  the  threshold,  the 
old  landlord  had  started,  and  had  well  nigh  dropped  his 
lamp.  Kecovering  himself,  however,  he  bowed  before 
his  unexpected  guest  and  humbly  asked  his  will. 

"My  horse,  sir!"  was  the  stern  reply.  "  How  often 
must  a  traveller  order  his  horse  in  your  ruinous  old 
cabaret  before  being  obeyed?  " 

"  But,  your  highness,"  began  the  old  man  in  earnest 
expostulation. 

"No  words,  sir! — the  horse! was  the  imperative 
rejoinder. 

"It  is  a  dreadful  night,"  again  ventured  the  host,  as  he 
slunk  towards  the  door ;  "  and  your  highness  had  better" — 

"  The  horse !  "  thundered  the  deep  voice  of  the  trav- 
eller. 

And,  without  further  word,  the  landlord  fled  precipi- 
tately from  the  apartment,  holding  up  his  hands  in 
dismay. 

No  wonder  the  old  fellow  is  amazed,"  soliloquized 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAX  d'AInGELY. 


27 


the  traveller  witli  a  smile,  as  the  host  disappeared.  "  It 
is,  indeed,  a  fearfal  night.  Xot  a  star  I''  he  coutiniied, 
going  to  the  casement  and  looking  fortli.  "  Yeiy  well. 
So  much  the  better.  I  wonder  if  lie  will  be  thei'e?"'  he 
added,  after  a  pause,  slowly  pacing  the  floor,  which 
creaked  beneath  his  heavy  tread,  with  folded  arms  and 
eves  fixed  thonghtfidly  on  the  ground.  "Be  there? 
Hell  itself  couldn't  keep  him  from  such  a  rendezvous,  or 
Heaven  either,  as  to  that,  after  the  inducements  that  he 
has  received!  Oh,  he'll  be  there,  and  at  the  appointed 
hour,  although,  if  this  old  fool  detains  me  much  longer, 
I  may  not." 

Luckily  for  the  landlord,  the  traveller  cauoht  the 
sound  of  horses'  hoofs  at  this  moment  on  the  stone  p^ave- 
ment,  in  the  yard  of  the  hotel,  and  immediately  hurried 
to  the  principal  entrance.  Opening  the  door,  he  was 
nearly  thrown  backward  by  the  fiii'ious  blast  that  rushed 
in.  In  front  stood  the  old  host,  holding  fost  with  both 
hands  to  the  bridle  of  the  terrified  horse.  Tlie  traveller 
closed  the  door  and  advanced.  The  horse  with  head 
throAvn  up,  and  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets,  and  mane 
streaniing  in  the  blast,  at  once  recognized  his  master  as 
he  approached,  and  rubbed  his  head  against  his  arm  in 
token  of  recognition.  The  traveller  placed  a  piece  of 
gold  in  the  hand  of  the  host,  and  leaped  upon  liis  horse. 

"  Holy  St.  Benedict; ''  cried  the  host,  whither  do  you 
go  on  a  niglit  like  this?" 

''To  the  Abbey  of  St.  Jean  d'Angcly,"  Avas  the  brief 
reply;  and  wheeling  his  horse  the  ti'aveller  dashed  into 
a  road  which  plunged  into  the  depths  of  the  forest. 
2 


28 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  d'ANGELY. 


"May  all  the  saints  preserve  him!"  ejaculated  the  old 
man,  as  he  returned  to  his  liotel  and  found  that  the  piece 
of  gold  repaid  him  ten  times  over  the  traveller's  fare. 

The  midnight  tem})est  roared  through  the  ibrest,  and 
the  giant  trees  bowed  before  the  blast,  as  the  adven- 
turous  traveller  urged  on  his  steed. 

On — on,— mile  after  mile,  fled  the  terrified  animal 
through  the  impenetrable  gloom  of  the  midnight  forest; 
and  on,  still  on,  he  was  urged  hj  his  rider.  At  first,  the 
path  was  broad  and  open  ;  but  soon  it  became  winding 
and  intricate,  and,  at  length,  the  darkness  was  so 
intense  that  further  progress  seemed  impossible. 

Dismounting  from  his  sweating  horse,  the  traveller 
led  him  by  the  bridle,  and  endeavored  to  trace  the  path. 
But  this  was  impossible,  and,  after  repeatedly  wandering 
from  his  route,  he  remounted  the  saddle  and  resolved  to 
trust  rather  to  the  instinct  of  the  noble  animal  than  to  ^ 
his  own  less  acute  senses. 

•   For  several  miles  the  horse  slowly  advanced.  At 
length,  suddenly  sto})ping,  he  threw  up  his  head  and 
loudly  snorled.    The  next  moment  a  voice  was  heard  in 
the  darkness. 
"  Bordeaux  ! " 

"Eome!"  was  the  quick  response  of  the  traveller, 
who  at  once  dismounted. 

A  figure  advanced  and  the  traveller's  hand  was  closely 
grasped. 

"  Are  you  alone?  "  asked  the  horseman. 
■   "  I  am,"  was  the  reply. 

"Swear I"  was  the  imperious  order. 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  D'ANGELY.  29 


"Sire,  I  swear." 

'•Then,  on  to  tbe  Abbe;/,  for,  by  St.  Louis,  it  is  so 
infernally  dark  in  this  old  forest  that  it  is  impossible  to 
distinguish  a  tree  from  a  tower.'' 

"Permit  me  to  lead,"  replied  the  first  voice.  "The 
Abbey  is  but  a  few  yards  to  the  right." 

"  You  received  my  summons  ? 

"Sire,  I  did." 

"ISTo  one  accompanied  you  to  the  Abbey,  or  knows  of 
yonr  coming  ?  " 

"  No  one,  Sire.    I  left  Bordeaux  alone." 

"  And  reached  the  Abbej-  a'one?  " 

"About  two  hours  since." 

"And  no  one  knows  of  3'our  arrival?" 

"  Sire,  the  inmates  of  the  Abbey  have  been  asleep  for 
hours.  I  have  the  key  to  a  low  postern,  which  leads  to 
a  secret  turret.  Besides,  tlie  night  favors  us; — Avho  on 
such  a  night  would  brave  the  tempest  or  suspect  others 
of  braving  it — " 

"  A3'e,  who  but  Philip  of  France,  or  Bertrand  de  Gotli, 
Archbisliop  of  Bordeaux?" 

"Sire  —  Sire,  if  it  please  jou^  not  quite  so  loud!" 
cried  the  trembling  ecclesiastic.  "  We  are  at  the  Abbey." 

At  this  moment,  the  forest  path  emerged  upon  a  broad 
and  closely  shaven  area,  beyond  which  rose  in  iiTcguhir 
masses,  against  tlie  midnight  sky,  the  towers  of  the 
ancient  Abbey  of  St.  Jean  d'Angely. 

"This  way,  Sire!  " 

And  the  priest  conducted  his  companion  to  the  left  of 
the  main  entrance,  through  thickets  of  tangled  under- 


80 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  D'ANGELY. 


brusli,  and  through  the  old  woods  tintil  they  reached  the 
foot  of  a  tower,  against  which  the  enormous  trees  swept 
their  heavy  branches. 

Applying  a  key  to  a  low  iron  door,  at  the  base  of  the 
tower,  it  opened.  The  horse  was  secured  to  a  tree,  and, 
grasping  his  companion  by  the  hand,  the  priest  led  the 
way  np  a  narrow  and  winding  stair,  practised  in  the  depth 
of  the  massive  wall,  until  their  progress  was  arrested  by 
a  second  door,  likewise  of  iron.  This  door  flew  open  be- 
fore the  priest,  apparently  by  means  of  some  secret  spring 
which  he  touched,  for  he  used  i.o  key,  and  the  two  men 
were  the  next  moment  in  a  small  turret  chamber,  heavil}^ 
hung  with  tapestry  of  black  velvet,  with  but  one  window, 
which  was  also  heavily  draped.  At  the  extremity  of 
the  apartment  stood  an  altar  surmounted  by  the  crucifix, 
and  lighted  by  twelve  waxen  tapers,  and  decorated  as  for 
solemn  mass. 

The  two  men,  revealed  to  each  other  by  the  light  of 
these  sacred  tapers,  presented  a  contrast  well  worthy  of  a 
moment's  pause. 

Philip  the  Fourth,  of  France,  if  not  absolutely  "the 
handsj^mesi  man  in  Europe,"  as  the  distinction  which  his- 
tory has  given  him, —  Philip  le  Bel^ — would  imply,  had, 
at  least,  very  few  rivals ;  and,  among  these  rivals,  cer- 
tainly was  not  Berti'and  de  Goth,  the  Primate  of 
Bordeaux.  Philip  was  tall  in  person  and  kingly  in  bear- 
ing ;  Bertrand  was  short  and  corpulent.  The  (ront  of 
the  king  was  bold,  frank,  open  ;  that  of  the  priest  was 
sinister,  suspicious,  cautious.  The  former  was  the  lion, 
— the  latter  the  serpent;  yet  the  aspect  of  each  indicated 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  d'AXGELY. 


31 


power  and  ability, — a  power  and  an  ability,  as  well  as 
an  ambition,  of  which,  even  after  the  lapse  of  more  than 
five  centuries,  the  marks  can  be  distinctly  traced  on  the 
era  and  npon  the  nations  in  which  tijey  lived. 

As  the  King  entei'ed  the  turret  chamber,  his  hand 
rested  on  his  sword,  and  his  dark,  penetrating  eye 
glanced  hastily  around,  sweeping  the  narrow  limits  of 
the  apartment  fi'om  its  arched  roof  to  its  stony  pavement. 

Two  heavy  chairs  and  a  table  of  oak,  on  which  were 
candles  and  materials  for  writing,  constituted,  with  the 
altar,  tlie  entire  furniture  of  the  room. 

"  Will  your  Majesty  be  seated  ?  "  humbly  asked  the 
ecclesiastic,  presenting  one  of  the  chairs. 

Tlie  King  returned  no  reply,  but  continued  his  exam- 
ination of  the  chamber. 

Eaising  the  tapestry  he  sounded  the  walls  with  the 
hilt  of  his  sword,  and  the  floor  with  his  armed  heel,  to 
detect,  if  possible,  concealed  apertures,  if  such  there 
were.  He  even  examined  the  altar  itself,  that  he  might 
be  sure  it  concealed  no  listener;  and,  at  an  age  wdien 
poison  was  actually  administered  in  the  holy  wafer,  it 
was  not  strange  that  a  traitor  nnght  be  suspected  to  lurk 
beneath  the  altar  of  God. 

"  ^ylll  your  Majesty  be  seated?"  again  asked  the 
priest 

"Are  we  alone?  "  sternly  demanded  the  King. 
"Sire,  we  are!  "  was  the  trembling  reply, 
"  Swear!" 

"I  swear!"  said  the  priest,  laying  his  hand  on  the 
Gospels,  which  were  spread  open  on  the  altar. 


32 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  D'ANGELY. 


"  It  is  well,"  said  tlie  King,  placing  his  drawn  sword 
upon  the  table,  and  taking  one  of  the  chairs. 
The  priest  remained  standing. 
''Be  seated.  Sir!"  said  the  King. 
The  Archbishop  obeyed. 

For  some  moments  Philip  sat  silent,  his  searching 
eyes  fixed  steadfastly  on  the  trembling  priest. 

"Bertrand  de  Goth,"  he,  at  length,  said,  in  deep  and 
impressive  tones,  "yon  are  my  deadliest  foe  !  " 

The  priest  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  his  hand  sought  the 
bosom  of  his  cassock,  while  beneath  that  garment  glit- 
tered the  links  of  a  shirt  of  mail,  as  well  as  the  blade 
of  a  dagger. 

A  contemptuous  smile  passed  over  the  calm  face  of 
the  King,  as  he  quietly  waved  to  his  startled  companion 
to  resume  his  chair. 

The  priest  reluctantly  complied,  but  still  kept  the 
wakeful  vigil  of  his  serpent  eye  on  the  powerful  form 
before  him. 

"  I  say.  Sir  Priest,"  repeated  the  King,  "  that,  since  the 
deserved  and  dreadful  doom  of  Benedict  Gaetan,  Pope 
Boniface  Eighth,  you,  Bertrand  de  Goth,  who  now  aspire 
to  his  vacant  chair,  are  mj  deadliest  foe." 

Tlje  Archbishop,  pale  as  death,  and  wondering  to  what 
this  strange  charge  might  lead,  retained  his  seat  in 
silence.  A  personal  struggle  with  a  man  of  Philip's 
powers  he  knew  could  only  prove  fatal  to  himself; 
while  in  craft  and  subtlety  he  thought  he  might  prove  a 
match  even  for  the  King.  This,  indeed,  was  his  only 
hope. 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  d'aXGELY. 


33 


"T  repeat,  Sir,  and  you  dare  not  deny.""  resumed  the 
King,  ''that  all  the  censures,  interdicts  and  excommuni- 
cations launched  so  freely  on  myself  and  my  realm 
for  nearly  ten  years  by  Benedict  Gaetan  Avei'e  counseled 
by  you,  and  sustained  hy  you,  and  that  as  a  ]e\vard  for 
that  support  and  countenance,  you.  were  first  advanced 
by  your  master  to  the  See  of  Cominges  and  linally  to  the 
splendid  Archbishopric  of  Bordeaux."' 

"But  Benedict  Gaetan  lives  no  more,'"  was  the  reply. 

"  Aye.  he  lives  no  more  I  "  cr'ed  the  King,  the  bitter 
smile  of  gratified  vengeance  lighting  his  quivering  lip 
and  the  fires  of  exultation  flashing  in  his  eye.  '"Bene- 
dict Gaetan  lives  no  more.  And  how  did  he  die? 
Even  as  the  dog  dies,  so  died  he  ;  and  thus  perish  all  the 
foes  of  France  I "' 

The  Archbishop  shuddered  and  became  even  more 
livid  than  before. 

Sliall  I  tell  you  how  he  died  ?  "  continued  the  King. 
"Abandoning  the  Vatican,  besought  sal'ety  in  his  native 
village  of  Anagni  from  my  vengeance  on  his  crimes. 
There  DeiN'ogaret,  with  Sciarra  Colonna  and  his  soldiers, 
seized  him.  In  his  rage  he  blasphemed  God,  abjured 
Christ,  and  cursed  the  King  of  Fi-ance  to  the  fourth 
generation.  Next  delirium  came  on  him.  and  in  par- 
oxj'sms  of  madness  he  gnawed  his  own  flesh  in  agony: 
and  he  died  I  And  then  was  recalled  tlie  pro'diecy  of 
his  victim-predecessor,  the  unhappy  Peter  de  Mouron, 
Pope  Celestin  Fifth, — '  Curses  on  thee,  Benedict  Gaetan  I 
Thou  hast  mounted  the  throne  like  a  fox,  thou  wilt 
reio'D  like  a  lion  and  die  like  a  dog  1 '  And  so  it  wasl" 


34 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  d'ANGELY. 


Silence  for  some  moments  succeeded  this  wratlifa] 
outburst  of  the  King, 

"  And  was  it  to  repeat  to  me  tlie  fearful  doom  of  Bon- 
iface," at  length  the  priest  ventured  to  say,  "  that  your 
Majesty  summoned  me  hither?  " 

"  It  was  !  "  quickly  and  sternly  answered  the  King. 

"Amen!"  ejaculated  the  Archbishop.  "But,  Sire, to 
what  end  ?  " 

"To  this  end — to  make  my  fiercest  foe  my  fastest 
friend!" 

Tlie  pries!  raised  his  ej^es  in  amazement,  but  they  met 
the  fixed  gaze  of  Philip  and  again  sought  the  ground. 

"  Bertrand  de  Goth,"  said  the  King,  "  you  know  me  ;  " 
then,  after  a  pause,  he  added:  "  And  I,  Sir,  know  you  ! " 

The  Archbishop  bowed. 

"I  know  you  fur  the  most  daring  and  unscrupulous 
prelate  in  Christendom." 
The  priest  again  bowed. 

"  I  know  tliat  you  fear  not  Heaven  nor  Hell,  and 
■-regard  not  God  nor  man." 
Again  the  primate  bowed. 

"I  know  you  as  tlie  faithful  neophyte  of  Boniface 
Eighth, — and  he  was  my  foe!" 
The  priest  started. 

"And,  since  that  man's  deserved  and  dreadful  doom,! 
know  no  primate  in  Europe,  wlio  can  be  a  more  dan- 
gerous foe,  or  a  more  efficient  friend,  to  me  and  to  my 
cause,  than  you  can." 

"Sire — Sire!  "  exclaimed  the  astonished  priest,  rising 
to  throw  himself  at  the  King's  feet. 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  d'ANGELY.  35 


"Nay — nay— not  yet!"  replied  Philip,  with  a  gesture 
of  repulse.    "  Be  seated,  Sir;  you  have  heard  not  all." 

The  primate  resumed  his  chair,  and,  folding  his  arms 
upon  his  breast,  fixed  his  eyes  humbly  on  the  ground. 

"  Bertrand  de  Goth,"  said  the  King,  "you  are  of  an 
ancient  race; — your  father  was  a  Knight  of  Villan- 
drean,  and  your  uncle  Bishop  of  Agen.  From  your 
infancy  you  have  been  destined  to  the  church,  and,  in 
ecclesiastical  knowledge,  you  have  no  rival." 

The  prelate  bowed  and  murmured  a  faint  acknow- 
ledgment. 

"You  are  a  man  of  influence,  ability,  scholarship, 
accomplishment  — " 

"  Sire — Sire  I  "  interrupted  the  astonished  Archbishop. 

"  And  you  are  a  man  of  vice,  cruelty,  hypocrisy 
and  guilt.'' 

The  priest  was  silent. 

"  But,  above  all,  for  my  purpose,  you  are  a  man  of 
ambition, — measureless — fathomless  ambition.  To  win 
the  rewards  of  ambition,  there  is  no  depth  of  guilt  into 
which  you  would  not  descend,— there  is  no  principle 
however  sacred  which  you  Avould  not  sacrifice.  Am  I 
right?" 

The  priest  returned  no  reply. 

"  Am  I  right,  I  ask  !  "  sternly  repeated  the  King. 

The  prelate  bowed. 

"  Yery  well.  It  is  but  fit  that  two  men  such  as  we 
are, — such  as  you  know  me  to  be,  and  as  I  know  you  to 
be,  should  understand  each  other,  before  we  make  a  com- 
pact." 


86 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  d'ANGELY. 


"  A  compact,  Sire?  "  exclaimed  the  Arclib'sLop. 

"  Aje,  a  compact.  You  bave  lieai'd  of  compacts  with 
tLe  fiend  himself,  have  3^011  not?  The  theme  I  had  sup- 
posed a  favorite  one  with  you  churchmen!" 

"A  compact  of  friendship,  Sire?"  inquired  De  Goth. 

"Friendsliip  1  AVhat  friendship  can  ever  exist  be- 
tween two  men  who  have  hated  each  other  as  we  have, 
and  still  do  hate  each  other  ns  we  do?  Friendsliip, 
indeed!    No,  Sir — 0I1,  no!    A  compact  of  interest ! " 

"And  what  interest  of  your  Majesty  can  the  poor 
primate  of  Bordeaux  advance  ?  " 

"Ask  rather  that  which  is  uppermost  in  your  mind, 
what  intei'est  of  the  primate  of  Bordeaux  can  Philip  of 
France  advance?  But  we  waste  time.  To  the  point. 
When  Philip  the  Hardy,  my  father,  died,  he  bequeathed 
to  mv  fulfillment  three  schemes  which  he  had  in  vain 
striven  himself  to  fulfill:  the  first  was  to  seat  on  the 
throne  of  Arragon  my  brother,  Charles  of  Valois,  on  whom 
Pope  Martin  Fourth  bestowed  the  sceptre  of  an  excom- 
municated king: — second,  to  establish  the  children  of 
Blanche  de  la  Cerda  on  the  throne  of  Castile ;  and,  third, 
to  reduce  the  rebels  of  Sicily,  and  avenge  the  thirty 
thousand  Fj'enchmen  who  perished  in  the  slaughter  of 
the  Sicilian  Yespers." 

"  And  are  these  your  schemes.  Sire  ?  "  asked  De  Goth. 

"No,  indeed,''  replied  the  King  with  a  laugh;  "  ch, 
no!  Besides,  if  they  were,  what  aid  could  you  render  in 
their  accomplishment  ?  " 

''Sire,  I  despair  of  rendering  aid  in  any  of  your 
schemes." 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  d'aNGELY. 


37 


"How  humble  your  Excellency  lias  become  !  Oli,  no. 
My  scliemes  are  not  the  schemes  of  my  father.  Tliey 
called  him  Philip  the  Hard}^,  and  me  they  call  Philip 
the  Handsome,  and  yet  by  the  bones  of  my  worthy 
grandfather  Louis,  of  whom  Boniface  made  a  Saint  to 
atone  in  anticipation  somewhat,  I  suppose,  for  the 
wrongs  he  Avas  about  to  inflict  on  his  descendant, — I 
sav,  notwithstanding  my  fatlier  was  the  Hardy  Philip, 
and  T  am  the  Plandsome  Philip,  I  have  had  a  more  turbu- 
lent reign  than  he  had; — what  with  wars  with  the 
English,  and  the  Flemish,  and  Pope  Boniface  Eighth  of 
cursed  memory.  My  schemes.  Sir  priest,  he  within  my 
own  realm  for  their  fulfillment;  and  to  me  it  is  enough 
that  you  can  advance  them,  your  modesty  to  the  con- 
trarj"  nevertheless, — jou  can  advance  them  I  say,  if  I 
think  proper  to  advance  you  ! " 

"To  advance  me,  your  jMajesty?  " 

"To  be  sure — to  advance  you.  Of  what  service  can 
3'ou  now  be  to  me?  But  a  moment  since  you  were  your- 
self in  despair  of  aiding  me  in  an}^  of  my  schemes." 

"  And  still  am  so,  Sire,"  was  the  meek  answer. 

"Come — come — you.  are  too  humble  by  half,"  said  the 
King.  "  Such  abasement  flatters  some  weak  souls,  but 
it  is  loathsome  to  me.  Let  us  talk  of  Mother  Church. 
What  news  from  Eome  ?•  What  of  the  new  Pope  ?  " 

"Nicholas  of  Trevisohas  not  jei  been  long  enough  in 
the  papal  chair  to  accomplish  anything  of  moment,  Sire; 
but  he  has  been  there  long  enough  to  incur  the  hate  of 
his  whole  college  of  cardinals,  I  learn.  This,  indeed,  is 
tlie  latest  news  from  Eome." 


38 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  d'aNGELY. 


"  And  why  do  tliej  liate  tlie  good  Benedict,  my 
worthy  Bertrand?  " 

The  Archbishop  sliook  his  head. 

"Shall  I  tell  you?  It  is  because  lie  Las  not  obeyed 
the  injunction  of  Boniface  when  he  elevated  the  man, 
who,  from  a  preaching  friar,  was  promoted  to  the  post 
of  sub-prior,  then  prior,  then  provincial,  and  finally 
general  of  his  order, — to  the  Cardinalate  and  Archbish- 
opric of  Ostia." 

"  And  that  injunction,  Sire  ?  " 

"  Was  this — 'Be  less  pious,  or  be  more  hated  ! 

"His  piety  then  has  excited  the  hate  of  his  cardinals, 
your  Majesty  would  say  ?  " 

"  Plow  quick  you  are,  my  good  Bertrand !  France 
has  a  right  to  claim  a  few  cardinals'  hats,  has  she  not?  " 

"The  French  clergy  has  been  neglected.  Sire." 

"  And  Pope  Benedict  Eleventh  could  send  a  red  hat 
to  cover  the  pious  pate  of  the  right-reverend  Bertrand 
de  Goth,  Archbishop  of  Bordeaux,  might  he  not  ?  " 

"The  Holy  Father  has  the  power,  Sire." 

"But  has  not  the  will,  you  were  about  to  add,  my 
pious  Bertrand?  " 

"I  have  no  hopes  of  advancement.  Sire,  at  the  hands 
of  Pope  Benedict.    I  opposed  his  elevation." 

"  And  had  you  favored  it  ?  " 

"  Still,  I  should  have  no  hope." 

"Pope  Benedict  is  not  immortal,  my  good  Bertrand. 
Pope  Boniface  was  not,  you  know." 

A  faint,  but  significant  smile  played  on  the  lip  of  the 
crafty  prelate. 


THE  ABBEY  OE  ST.  JEAX  d'aXGELY. 


39 


'•Besides."  contii^iied  tlie  King,  "you  said  but  now 
tliat  Lis  cardinals  liated  liini."' 
I  did.  Sire."' 

And  you  said,  too.  that  tliis  was  your  latest  intelli- 
gence from  Eorne,  was  it  not  so  ?  "' 
"  It  was.  Sire."' 

''Then  I  have  news  from  Eome  later  than  yours. 
Your  courier  says  the  cardinals  hate  the  Pope — my 
courier  savs  the  cardinals  have  poisoned  the  Po|_^el 

"Sire — Sire!""  exclaimed  the  astonished  Archbishop, 
springing  to  his  feet.      Can  tiiis  be  so  ? 

"Oil,  be  seated — be  seated,  mv  good  Bertrand."' 
quietly  replied  Pliilip.  ''It  not  only  can  be  so.  but  it 
actually  is  so.  Let  me  see — this  is  the  sixth  day  of 
August  ?  ■^" 

"It  is  Sire — the  Feast  oF  the  Transfiguration."' 
'"How  well  you  remember  the  Feast-davs,  mv  good 
Bertrand.""  said  tiie  King,  surveying  the  sleek  and  rubi- 
cund hice.  the  portly  and  well-fed  s'des  of  his  priestlv 
companion.  "Po  you  remember  the  Fast-days  as 
well?" 

Tiie  Archbishop  smiled. 

'"To-day.  then,  is  the  Feast  of  the  Transfigm^ation."' 
resumed  Puilip.  "AVhat  Feast  was  there  at  Eume  some 
tvro  Aveeks  ago. — on  the  twentieth  day  of  July  ?  " 

"The  Feast  of  St.  James.'" 

''Very  well.  On  the  day  of  this  grand  festival, 
the  good  Pope  gave  a  grand  dinner  to  his  whole  college 
of  cardinals, — those  cardinals  who  so  hated  him,  you 
know.    While  at  table,  a  nun  of  the  monastery  of  St. 


40 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  d'ANGELY. 


Peter ville, — so  goes  the  tale, — presented  Lerself,  and,  in 
tbe  name  of  tlie  Lady  Abbess,  who  was  one  of  his  peni- 
tents, offered  to  the  good  Benedict  some  freshly -culled 
figs,  -upon  a  silver  salver.  The  Holy  Father  could  not 
and  did  not  l  efuse  them.  He  ate  two,  and  offered  the 
others  to  his  guests.  They,  of  course,  coald  not  think 
of  depriving  his  Holiness  of  a  rarity,  which  he  loved  so 
well,  and,  at  their  urgent  solicitation,  he  ate  the  rest. 
That  night  he  was  seized  with  intestinal  pains,  and, 
before  morning,  the  ])apal  chair  was  vacant.  Such  is 
the  tale,  the  moral  of  which  seems  to  be  this,  that 
freshly-culled  figs  do  not  agree  with  a  p'.ous  Pope, — ■ 
especially,  as  subsequently  came  to  light,  wlien  pre- 
sented by  a  cardinal  who  hates  him,  disguised  as  a  nun 
of  St.  Peterville!" 

"  And  the  successor  to  the  Papal  See?" 

"Is  not  as  yet  elected." 

"And  the  cause,  Sire?  " 

"The  canse  seems  to  be  this:  From  the  first  day  of 
the  assemblage  of  the  conclave  at  Perouse,  the  cardinals 
were  divided  into  two  parties,  each  of  tliem  too  weak  to 
overthrow,  and  too  strong  to  be  overthrown  by  the 
other. .  The  Guelphs,  led  by  Francis  G-aetan,  the  brother 
of  the  departed  Benedict,  demand  an  Hah  an  cardinal, 
a  friend  of  Boniface;  the  Ghibehnes,  led  by  the  Cardinal 
de  Prato"— 

"^i^ie  Cardinal  de  Prato,  S:rc!" 

"Yes,  the  Cardinal  de  Prato,  my  friend  and  your  foe 

*  WilliaiD  de  Kogaret  and  Sciarra  Colomia  are  charged  liy  historians  with 
the  poisoning  of  Benedict  XI.  Ferreus  Vicentlnus  accuses'Philip  hiniseH,— 
these  men  being  his  agents. 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  d'ANGELY. 


41 


I  say,  tlie.  Ghibelines  led  by  De  Prato  demand  a  French 
cardinal,  a  friend  of  Pliilip." 

"And  is  tlie  conclave  still  in  session  at  Peronse, 
Sire?" 

"  No.  De  Prato  found  tliat  there  was  but  a  single 
poiut  on  which  they  agreed,  and  that  was  to  make  no 
more  Popes-  out  of  mencLcant  Iriars,  whom  Boniface 
had  exhorted  in  vain  to  be  less  pious;  and  also  that 
neither  party  would  concede  anything  to  the  other.  On 
his  motion,  therefoi'e,  the  conclave  adjourned,  thus  afford- 
ing the  good  Cardinal  opportunity  to  communicate  by 
swil't  couriers  with  his  dear  and  powerful  friend,  the 
King  of  France, —  although,  of  course,  the  act  shonld  be 
to  the  verj^  great  scandal  of  the  cause,  and  the  inconso- 
lable grief,  no  doubt,  of  numerous  pious  souls.  For  wdiat 
saith,  the  constitution  of  Gregory  Tentli,  decreed  by  the 
general  council,  convened  in  the  city  of  Lyons  in  1273, 
for  the  relief  of  the  IJoly  Land,  and  for  the  reformation 
of  warriors?  Saith  it  not  even  thus, —  that  immediately 
on  the  Sovereign  Pontiff's  death,  the  Cardinals  shall  all 
assemble  in  one  chamber,  and  in  that  chamber  be  se- 
curely locked  with  a  Ivcy — con  clavis — no  one  being  suf- 
fered to  enter  and  no  one  to  leave,  and,  if,  Avithin  three 
days,  they  have  not  agreed  upon  a  successor,  then,  for  the 
five  following  days,  they  shall  have  but  one  dish  for  each 
meal ;  and,  at  the  ex})iration  of  those  fiv^e  days,  they 
shall  be.  fed  frugally  on  bread  and  water,  until  a  Pon- 
tiff is  elected?  —  I  say,  good  Bertrand,  saith  it  not  so?  " 

"Even  so.  Sire,  it  saith,"  was  the  reply.  "  But  what 
saith  the  worthy  Cardinal  De  Prato  ?  "  meekly  added  the 


42 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST,  JEAN  d'ANGELY. 


Archbisliop,  wTio  was  evidently  wri tiling  under  tlie  tor- 
ments of  excited  curiosity — torments  wliich  tlie  craCty 
King  could  not  but  perceive,  wLatever  the  efforts  to  con- 
ceal them,  and  which  it  seemed  his  policy  to  excite, 
rather  than  to  allay. 

"  The  worthy  Cardinal  De  Prato,  said  ye?  Ah,  true — ■ 
I  had  forgotten  he  was  one  of  your  special  friends,  good 
Bei  trand." 

The  Archbishop  bit  his  lip  with  vexation,  and  then 
smiled  and  bowed. 

"The  woi'tliy  Cardinal  says  this,  good  Bertrand,"  con- 
tinued the  King.  "Here  is  his  letter,"  he  added,  pro- 
ducing a  paper  from  his  vest,  "let  it  speak  for  itself.  It 
reached  me  at  Poitiers  by  an  express  courier,  to  whom 
I  gave  one  hundred  marks  of  silver,  only  four  days  ago; 
and  to-morrow, — nay,  this  very  night,  even,  that  courier 
must  start  back  to  Perouse  with  my  reply.  Immediately 
on  receipt  of  the  letter,  I  despatched  a  courier  to  you, 
appointing  this  rendezvous,  in  order  to  consult  you  on 
the  wise  De  Prato's  dispatch." 

"  May  I  read  the  letter,  Sire  ?"  asked  the  Archbishop, 
eagerly  extending  his  hand. 

"  Softly —softly,"  replied  Philip.  "All  in  good  time. 
You  may  listen  to  the  letter  first,  and,  afterwards  you 
may  read  what  is  written  —  perhaps." 

The  prelate  bowed  assent,  and,  resuming  his  chair, 
crossed  his  arms  upon  his  breast,  and,  fixing  his  eyes  upon 
the  floor,  prepared  to  listen. 

"The  wise  Cardinal  first  sets  forth  in  brief  the  posi- 
tion of  the  conclave,  at  the  time  of  its  scandalous 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAX  d'aXGELT. 


43 


adjournment.  This,''  continued  tlie  King,  "vre  liave 
alread}^  discussed.  He  next  proceeds  to  develop  his 
scheme.  To  elect  a  French  Cardinal  friendly  to  Philip 
and  a  foe  to  Boniface  is,  of  course,  impossible ;  but  a 
French  Cardinal  and  a  foe  to  Philip  is  preferable  to  an 
Italian. 

''This,  then,  the  ^ise  Cardinal  proposed:  —  that  the 
Guelplis — the  cisniontane  —  the  Italian  Cardinals — ■ 
should  nominate  three  Ghibelines  ;  —  ultramontane  or 
French  Cardinals,  and,  of  these  three,  the  Ghibelines 
should  select  that  one  least  obnoxious  to  them." 

And  have  the  Guelphs  made  their  nomination?  " 

"You  shall  hear.  The  proposition  was  eagerly  ac- 
cepted—  the  bait  was  greedily  swallowed,  and  three 
ecclesiastics  of  this  realm  were  nominated,  who.  of  all 
others,  have  ever  manifested  themselves  the  most  vir- 
ulent and  uncompromising  enemies  of  Philip  of  France, 
and  the  most  open,  avowed,  and  devoted  slaves  of  Ben- 
edict Gaetan.^' 

It  was  impossible  for  the  agitated  primate  to  remain 
longer  u|vjii  his  chair.  Eising  to  his  feet,  he  hurried 
across  the  narrow  limits  of  the  chamber  in  a  frenzy  of 
excitement,  and  then  returning  resumed  his  seat. 

"The  names,  Sire — I  imploi'e  you,  the  names'." 
earnestly  exclaimed  the  ambitious  Gascon. 

"Three  names,"'  calmly  continued  the  King,  reading 
from  the  paper,  "  and  the  names  of  three  of  vour  dead- 
l.est  foes  'n  France  were  selected.  It  onlv  remains  for 
you  to  select  which  of  these  three  men  shall  wear  the 
triple  crown  of  St.  Peter  ! 
3 


44 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  D'ANGELY. 


"Sire — Sire,"  ejaculated  the  excited  prelate,  dropping 
■upon  his  knees  —  "I  implore  you,  the  names  !  " 

"These  names,"  calmly  continued  the  King  "are  all  of 
them,  as  stated,  those  of  my  deadly  foes.  But,  there  is 
one  name  here  that  belongs  to  a  man  who  has  even  con- 
spired against  my  crown  and  my  life  1 " 

The  Archbishop  became  livid,  ghastly  in  his  pallor, 
at  these  words,  and  attempted  to  rise,  but  his  limbs 
refused  their  office. 

"  That  man,"  said  the  King,  in  stern  tones,  rising  from 
his  chair,  and  laying  his  hand  upon  the  hilt  of  his  sword, 
"is  Bertrand  de  Goth,  Archbishop  of  Bordeaux  !  " 

At  that  instant  a  vivid  flash  of  lightning  streamed 
through  the  black  drapery  that  shrouded  the  only  win- 
dow of  the  chamber,  succeeded  by  a  peal  of  thunder, 
which  broke  over  the  lofty  tower  and  shook  it  to  its 
foundation.  The  tempest,  which,  all  of  the  night,  had 
been  brooding,  now  burst  in  terrible  grandeur  over  the 
Abbey  and  woods  of  St.  Jean  d'Angely. 

The  Archbishop  leaped  to  his  feet,  and,  for  an  instant, 
the  two  men  gazed  upon  each  other  in  awe-struck, 
almost  superstitious  stillness. 

"I  say,"  was  heard  the  calm  voice  of  the  King,  as  the 
thunder  rumbled  away  in  the  distance,  and  the  big  drops 
began  to  patter  upon  the  dense  foliage  without,  "  T  say 
that  man  is  Bertrand  de  Goth,  and  that  man  is  he  whom 
Philip  of  France  may  now  with  a  word  place  on  the 
papal  throne  1 " 

De  Goth,  overwhelmed,  dropped  at  the  feet  of  the 
King  and  clasped  his  hands. 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAX  d'AXGELY.  45 

"  Sire,"  lie  murmured,  "  I  am  yours  !  Command — - 
I  obey.  From  this  moment  tlie  past  is  even  as 
if  it  had  never  been.  Friends — kindred — schemes — pur- 
poses— principles — my  veiy  existence  I  sacrifice  to  your 
will." 

"  Eise,  Sir — rise,"  said  the  King,  extending  his  hand, 
which  the  prehite  eagerly  grasped.  "  The  past  is  for- 
gotten— but  let  us  not  forget  the  future." 

Then  leading  the  Arclibisliop,  Avhose  hand  he  still 
firmly  grasped,  they  both  advanced  and  stood  before 
the  altar,  decorated,  as  has  been  said,  as  if  for  the 
celebration  of  midnight  mass. 

The  King  then  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  primate 
the  dispatch  of  the  Cardinal  de  Prato,  and,  while  it 
was  perused,  closely  watched  the  changes  of  his  agita- 
ted countenance. 

''Sire,  command — I  obey  I  "  faintly  murmured  De 
Goth,  when  he  had  concluded  and  returned  the  letter. 

"You  are  noAV  assui-ed,"  said  the  King,  "that,  with 
a  word,  I  can  place  you  on  the  Papal  tbrone,  or  one 
of  tAvo  other  men,  each  of  whom  is  your  bitter  foe, 
and,  who,  as  See  of  Eome,  would,  doubtless,  rejoice  to 
degrade  you  from  the  station  you  now  bold — are  you 
not?" 

.  -  "  Sire,  I  am." 

"  And  you  are  equjdly  assured,  knowing  me,  as  long 
and  as  well  as  you  have,  tbat  it  is  from  no  peculia-r 
regard  for  3'our  wishes  that  I  liave  selected  you  as  the 
recipient  of  my  favor;  but  because  you  can  and  will 
extend  me  tbat  aid,  as  Sovereign  Pontiff,  which  my 


46 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN"  d'ANGELY. 


interests  demand,  more  effectually  tlian  can  either  of 
your  competitors  ?  " 

"  Sire,  ask  what  you  will.    Your  wishes  are  mine." 

Turning  to  the  altar,  the  King  glanced  over  it,  and  at 
the  objects  which  were  placed  upon  it. 

"  Have  you  here,"  he  said  "  the  articles  named  in  my 
letter?" 

"  They  are  here,  Sire." 

"  The  consecrated  host  ?  " 

"  Is  in  this  golden  pix." 

"  Aiid  the  rehcs  of  the  'Saints  ?  " 

"The  most  revered  relics  of  my  diocese,  together  with 
a  portion  of  the  true  cross,  are  in  that  casket." 
"  And  the  Holy  Evangelists?  " 

"Sire,  the  volume  is  here,"  said  the  priest,  placing  his 
hand  upon  its  open  pages,  as  the  book  lay  spread  upon 
the  altar. 

"  Bertrand  do  Goth,"  said  the  King,  in  solemn  tones, 
"upon  these  Evangelists,  and  these  relics,  and  this  con- 
secrated host,  swear  to  me  the  fulfillment  of  six  articles 
of  covenant,  which  T  shall  now  propose  ;  and,  upon  these 
awful  symbols  do  /  swear  to  place  on  your  brow  the 
tiara  of  Rome  ! " 

"  Sire,  I  swear!  "  firmly  rejoined  ,De  Goth. 

"Swear  to  me,  that  so  soon  as  you  are  seated  on  the 
Papal  throne,  you  will  revoke  all  excommunications, 
suspensions  of  privilege,  interdicts,  depositions,  and  all 
and  every  ecclesiastical  censure,  done  or  ordered  to  be 
done,  by  Benedict  Gaetan,  Pope  Boniface  Eighth,  against 
France,    the   King  of  France,  and  the  Princes,  his 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAX  d'AXGELY. 


47 


Brotliers  and  sous;  also  against  liis  barons,  prektes  and 
other  lords  of  his  reahn,  because  of  their  denunciations, 
appeals,  and  demands  for  a  general  council,  and  becnu.-e 
of  alleged  outrages,  blasphemies,  invasions,  robberies  or 
pillage  of  the  treasures  of  the  Church,  and  that  all  taint  of 
calumny,  and  all  note  of  infamy  against  the  name  of  those 
who  have  sustained  the  King  of  Fi'ance  in  this  contest  shall 
be  abolished;  and,  finally,  that  the  originals  of  the  sen- 
tences pronounced  by  tbe  Court  of  Eome  against  the 
King  of  France  and  his  adherents  shall  be  torn  from  the 
register  of  the  Church  and  publicly  burned— you  swear? 

"  I  swear!  "  was  the  solemn  reply. 

"Swear  to  me,  tbat  you  will  proclaim  to  the  whole 
world  that  Benedict  Gaetan,  Pope  Boniface  Eighth,  by 
reason  of  his  evil  deeds  in  the  flesh,  merits  the  eternal 
damnation  of  hell,  and  that  his  acts  and  his  memory  are 
alike  detestable  and  infamous — you  swear?  " 

"  I  swear  !  " 

"  Swear  to  me  that  joni  consecration  as  Sovereign 
Pontiff  shall  be  celebi'ated  within  the  i^alm  of  France 
and  that  the  Papal  See  sball  be  removed  to  Avignon 
from  Eome — you  swear  ? 

"  I  swear  !  " 

"  Swear  to  me  that  you  will  elevate  to  the  Card'nalate, 
or  to  any  other  dignity  of  the  Church,  anj-  and  all  sucb 
ecclesiastics  as  may  be  designated  by  the  King  of  France 
— you  swear? "         .  ■ 

"  I  swear  1 " 

"  Swear  to  me  tliat  you  will  restore  to  France  all  her 
privileges,  titles,  dignities  and  estates,  and  will  preserve 


48  THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  JEAN  D'ANGELY. 


to  her  all  lier  francliises,  sovereignties,  imposts  and 
powers,  slie  recogDiziiig  upon  earth  no  other  master  of 
her  temporal  goods  save  only  Philip,  her  King,  and  that, 
for  tlie  space  of  five  years,  all  tithes  of  her  clergy  shall 
be  paid  only  to  him — you  swear?  " 
"  1  swear  !  " 

"  Tliere  is  yet  one  other  article  of  covenant,"  said  the 
King,  "to  complete  the  number  of  six,  to  which  you  are 
pledged,  which  I  am  not  now  prepared  to  propound. 
This  article,  whatsoever  it  may  be,  and  whensoever  pro- 
pounded, swear  to  me  that  you  will  also  fulfill." 

"  I  swear !  "  was  the  deep  answer. 

"  And  the  pledges  to  this  fulfillment  ?  " 

"  My  two  brothers,  Gaillard  and  Edmund  de  Goth,  at 
the  Court  of  France." 

"The  compact  is  completed — the  covenant  is  made! 
cried  Philip,  drawing  foith  a  parchment  covered  with 
wr.ting,  which  he  spread  upon  the  altar.  "  It  needs  but 
the  manual  signature  of  Bertrand  de  Goth,  and  the 
impress  of  the  Episcopal  signet-ring  of  the  Archbishop 
of  Bordeaux." 

In  turn,  the  primate  drew  back.  Upon  that  parch- 
ment, in  the  Latin  language,  was  fairly  engrossed  the 
six  articles,  to  the  fulfillment  of  which  he  had  just  now 
so  solemnly  sworn,  together  with  the  oath  itself  upon 
tlie  host,  the  rehcs  and  the  gospels,  which  no  Catholic, 
do  what  else  he  might,  could,  once  recorded,  disregard, 
under  penalty,  as  he  believed,  of  undying  infamy  in  this 
world  and  unending  misery  in  another. 

Well  might  the  primate  draw  back  and  tremble  at  the 


THE  ABBEY  OF  ST.  .JEAX  D'aXGELY. 


49 


sight  oP  tliis  terrible  record  of  an  oath,  "which,  nnwit- 
iiessed  and  secret,  he  had  fondly  trusted  might  be  evaded. 

"  Ha  !  do  you  hesitate?  do  you  refuse  ?  cried  the  fiery 
iking.  "  Yet.  h;e  it  so — be  it  so,''  se'zing  the  parchment, 
wliich  he  was  proceeding  to  replace  in  his  bosom. 

"  Sire  I exclaimed  De  Goth,  "  gi^'e  me  the  parcli  ment  I  " 

The  parchment  T^'as  again  produced.  A  pen  Avas 
seized  from  the  table. — the  name  of  Bertrand  de  Goth 
was  af&xed  to  the  record;  beside  it  was  placed  a  mass 
of  melted  wax.  and  on  it  was  impressed  the  signet-ring 
of  the  Archbishop  of  Bordeaux. 

It  is  done!    exultingly  cried  the  King. 
It  is  done  !  "  faintly  responded  the  priest. 

x^t  that  moment,  the  last  low  burst  of  the  retreating 
tempest,  whicli  had  spent  its  fury  on  the  old  Abljey  of 
St.  Jean  d'Angely  and  its  ancient  wooJs,  muttered  sul- 
leiily  in  tlie  distance. 

Silently — quickly,  the  tall  tapers  were  extinguished. — 
the  sacred  symbols  were  secured  by  tlie  primate. — the 
King  seized  his  parchment  and  sword, — tiie  door  of  tlie 
secret  chamber  was  opened, —  tlie  narrow  stairway,  wind- 
ing steeply  down  through  the  mass:ve  turret,  was 
descended:  and.  when  the  King  and  the  prelate  emerged 
from  the  gloom,  the  bright  stars  were  looking  down  as 
peacefully  from  their  far,  happy  homes,  as  if  the  tempest 
had  never  burst,  and  the  lightning  had  never  scathed, 
and  man  had  never  sinned. 

An  liour  later,  the  morning  broke:  and  on — on. — for 
life — for  death,  sped  a  fleet  courier  on  the  route  to 
Perouse  1 


50 


PAEIS  IN  THE  FOUETEENTH  CENTURY. 


CHAPTER  II. 

TAmS  IN  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 

^  ^  r  I IHE  palace  of  tlie  Louvre  is,  assuredly,  of  all 
i  the  monuments  of  Paris,  that  which  most 
merits  a  visit." 

Thus  writes  a  Parisian  of  the  nineteenth  century;  yet, 
a  marvel  and  a  mystery,  as  this  mighty  and  magnificent 
structure  now  is,  not  less  mighty  and  magnificent,  and 
marvelous,  seems  it  to  have  been  five  hundred  years  ago, 
to  the  Parisian  age  of  the  reign  of  Philip  le  Bel. 

The  old  Louvre  of  Philip  Augustus,  "  that  immense 
building,  whose  great  tower  ralhed  around  it  twenty- 
three  other  towers,  without  rech'oning  turrets — that 
hydra  of  towers,  the  giant  guardian  of  Paris,  with  its 
twenty -four  heads,  ever  erect,  with  its  monstrous  ridges, 
cased  in  lead,  or  scaled  with  slate,  and  glistening  all  over 
with  the  reflection  of  metals  " — such  was  the  Louvre,  at 
the  opening  of  the  fourteenth  century. 

Twelve  hundred  years  ago,  when  tliat  splendid  old 
Sultan,  Dagobert,  was  King,  the  whole  of  the  present 
Ville  de  Paris^ — the  whole  northern  bank  of  the  Seine 
was  covered  with  dense  forest  to  the  water's  edge.  Yet, 
on  the  very  spot  where  now  stands  the  palace  stood  then 
a  citadel  and  a  church.  It  was  a  vast  parallelogram  of 
structures,  the  stone  walls  pierced  with  loop-holes,  and 
surrounded  by  a  deep  ditch  fed  by  the  neighboring  Seine. 


'PARIS  IX  THE  FOURTEEXTH  CEXTURY. 


51 


In  the  year  of  grace,  120-i,  being  the  23d  of  the  reign 
of  the  great  Philip  Aiigiistiis,  in  the  centre  of  this  vast 
quadrangle  of  old  Dagobert  rose  a  might}'  toAver,  and  it 
was  christened  "the  Tower  of  tiie  Louvre,"  although  ibr 
what  earthly  reason,  no  one  seems  to  know.  Other 
towers  were  added,  to  the  number  of  more  than  a  score, 
and  the  old  structm^e,  greatly  enlarged,  and  sti-engthened, 
and  beautified,  assumed  a  shape  and  aspect,  which  it 
retained  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  years,  until  the  reign  of 
Charles  the  Fifth, 

Tiie  Louvre  of  Philip  Augustus  was,  therefore,  the 
Louvre  of  Philip  k  Bel.  Although  in  1305,  it  was,  of 
course,  just  a  hundred  years  older  than  when  completed, 
in  1205 ;  yet,  at  both  periods,  it  stood  as  a  sort  of  out- 
post, like  the  hastilks  of  Louis  Philippe,  just  without 
the  walls  of  Paris. 

Thus  much  for  the  dironohgy  of  the  palace  of  the 
Louvre.  The  tower  of  the  Louvre,  or  the  Tower  Phil- 
lipine,  or  the  Tower  Xeuve,  as  by  historians  it  is  indif- 
ferently called,  seems  to  have  been  one  of  the  most 
famous  structures  of  the  middle  ages.  Its  form  Avas 
circular,  and  a  broad  fosse^  in  which  ran  the  waters  of  the 
Seine,  bathed  its  foundation.  Its  connection  with  the 
paved  quadrangle  of  the  Court  was  by  means  of  a 
ponderous  drawbridge,  and  Avith  the  surrounding  fortifi- 
cations b}^  means  of  a  bridge  of  stone,  with  a  gallery 
above.  Its  AA^alls  are  said  to  have  been  thirteen  feet  in 
depth,  and  its  altitude  was  about  seventy.  But  then, 
hke  all  the  other  churches,  palaces,  and  prisons  of  the 
feudal  times,  it  stood  "  up  to  its  middle  in  the  ground  j  " 


52 


PARIS  IN  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


tliere  was  as  mucli  of  it  below  tlie  ground  as  there  was 
above :  nay,  its  depth  below  the  surface  was,  probably, 
far  greater  than  was  its  height  above ;  for  one  of  its 
fearful  oubliettes  is  said  to  have  been  a  hundred  feet  deep  ! 
It  was  a  tree  with  roots  more  extended  than  its 
branches.  It  was  a  prison,  palace,  church,  sepulchre 
and,  also,  a  treasury,  with  two  stories  below  the  ground 
and  one  above. 

Dreadful,  no  doubt,  were  the  scenes  which  those  myste- 
rious caverns  witnessed,  and  dreadful,  certainly,  was  the 
fame  with  which  that  dark  old  tower  was  cursed.  As 
was  said  of  the  Piombi  of  Venice,  or  Dante's  Ilell,  the 
man  who  entered  those  dreary  depths  might  well  "leave 
hope  behind."  For  more  than  a  hundred  years,  those 
vaults  wei-e  the  prison-house  of  criminals  of  the  State ; 
and  the  horrible  tales  of  which  they  were  the  scene  yet 
live  on  the  chronicler's  page.  At  length  the  horror 
arising  from  these  tales  of  blood  and  cruelty  caused  the 
tower  to  be  razed  to  the  ground.  Above  the  dungeons 
and  oubliettes  were  numerous  apartments,  among  which 
are  mentioned  a  chapel,  an  oratory  and  a  chamber  for 
the  royal  treasures. 

The  walls  and  structures  which  surrounded  the  cen- 
tral tower  of  the  Louvre,  and  formed  the  sides  of  the 
quadrangle,  are  said  to  have  been  surmounted  by  a  per- 
fect colonnade  of  turrets  and  towers,  of  all  shai)es,  sizes 
and  altitudes,  each  rejoicing  in  some  distinctive  appella- 
tion, indicative  of  the  use  it  subserved,  such  as  the 
tower  of  the  Clock,  the  tower  of  the  Floodgate,  the 
tower  of  the  Library,  of  the  Falconry,  of  the  Armory,  of 


PAEIS  IX  THE  FOUETEEXTH  CEXTUEY, 


53 


tlie  Grand  and  Little  Cbapels,  of  the  Grand  and  Little 
PriA'v-Council  Chambers.  Each  tower,  also,  had  a  cap- 
tain, who  was  no  less  a  personage  than  some  high  and 
most  m'.ghtv  seigneur  of  tLe  court.  The  main  structures 
of  the  q_aadrangle  are  said  to  have  contained  several  vast 
and  magnificent  apartments,  amongst  Avhicli  were  the 
Grand  Hall  of  St.  Louis,  the  Grand  Chamber  of  the 
Council,  the  Hall  of  the  King,  the  Hall  of  the  Queen,  as 
well  as  many  others.  It  Avas,  probablv,  the  first  named 
of  these  apartments,  in  which,  nearly  a  hundred  years 
subsequent  to  the  period  of  which  I  write,  Charles  the 
Lifth  spread  that  splendid  banquet,  which  closed  the 
festivities  attending  the  triumphal  entry  into  Paris  of 
Isabelle  of  Ba^uere, — a  banquet  spread,  as  old  Froissart 
tells  us,  upon  that  marvellous  slab  of  marble,  AA'hich 
''nearly  filled  one  end  of  tlie  Hall,"'  and  which  f)r  length, 
breadth  and  thickness  Avas  then  supposed*,  to  be,  and  in 
good  sooth,  not  without  cause,  it  should  seem— 'the 
vastest  marble  slab  in  all  the  world,"" — a  slab  of  marble, 
which,  for  two  hundred  years,  subserved  almost  every 
variety  of  purpose,  from  a  platform  on  which  attorney's 
clerks  performed  their  mummeries,  to  a  ban.quetd^oard 
at  which  only  emperors,  kings,  and  princes  of  the  blood 
royal  might  sit:  a  slab  of  marble,  which,  alas,  and  alack, 
exists  no  longer! — the  great  fire  of  1618  having  very 
quickly  converted  the  aforesaid  slab,  by  fervent  heat, 
into  a  mass  of  vulgar  quickdime  I 

Tiie  minor  apartments  of  the  palace  of  the  Louvre,  the 
chambers,  galleries,  libraries,  oratories,  refectories,  labor- 
atories, kitchens,  cellars  and  servants'  of&ces  would  seem. 


54 


PARIS  IN  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


to  have  been  literally  numberless ;  to  say  nothing  of 
stables  and  gardens,  piscaries,  aviaries  and  menageries. 

The  entrance  to  the  Louvre  was  by  means  of  massive 
gateways,  four  in  number,  one  in  the  middle  of  each  Avail 
of  the  quadrangle,  each  overhung  by  a  turret;  and  with 
portcullis  ever  down,  and  di'awbridge  ever  up,  they 
frowned  sullen  defiance  on  all  who  might  approach. 

The  view  of  Paris  from  the  belfry  of  tlie  grand  cen- 
tral tower  of  the  old  Louvre,  of  a  fine  summer  morning, 
in  the  time  of  the  reign  of  Philip  le  Bel^  must  have  been 
extremely  fine.  From  the  west  comes  sweeping  on 
"the  genial  and  abou.nding  Seine,"  and,  passing  through 
its  beloved  Paris,  pours  along  its  waters  at  your  feet, 
and  winds  oft'  with  two  prodigious  bends,  and  is  lost 
amono;  the  hills  in  the  west.  On  its  northern  bank  is 
the  Ville  of  Paris  ;  on  the  island  in  its  middle  is  the  6V/e, 
and  on  the  southern  bank  is  the  JJniversiie^  all  three 
connected  by  two  long  and  continuous  streets  from  north 
to  south,  at  right  angles  with  the  Seine,  which  they 
cross  by  two  bridges  of  stone, — a  massive  castle  stand- 
ing at  tlie  extremity  of  each  bridge,  and  each  extremity 
of  each  street  being  terminated  by  a  massive  gate  in  the 
city  walls.  For,  then  as  now,  though  not  one-half  its 
present  extent,  Paris  was  environed  with  its  Avail ;  and 
without  that  wall,  at  its  base,  wns  a  broad,-  deep  ditch, 
through  Avhich  poured  tlie  Avnters  of  the  Seine;  and  in 
that  wall  were  ponderous  gates;  and  at  night  those  gates 
were  closed,  and  huge  cliains  were  suspended  across  the 
Seine  above  the  city  and  below,  from  bank  to  bank,  and 
the  lonely  watchman  walked  his  rounds,  and  sang — 


PAEIS  IX  THE  FOURTEEXTH  CEXTURY. 


55 


Sleep  on,  good  people  of  Paris',  sleep  on!  All  is 
^velll  all  is  Avell!'' 

As  A'oii  look  doAvn  from  your  loftr  site,  towards  the 
east,  directly  in  front  of  you  rises  the  sliarp  Gothic  roof 
and  pointed  spires  of  tbe  ancient  church  of  St.  Germain 
I'Auxerrois,  with  its  stupendous  rose-wdndow  and  its 
tall  arched  doorways,  beneath  wliicli,  for  many  centuries, 
went  the  kings  of  France,  so  long  as  the  Louvre  was 
their  dwelling,  to  confess  their  many  sins.  Pursuing 
tlie  YixeT  bank,  in  the  same  direction,  your  eye  is  next 
arrested  by  the  grim  battlements  of  that  stern  old  furti- 
lace,  the  Grand  Cliatelet,  for  centuries  a  tribunal  and  a 
prison,  standing  like  a  giant  guardian  at  tlie  head  of 
the  Pont  au  Change,  the  sole  connecting  link  at  that 
time  between  the  Cii'e  and  the  Ville.  From  the  Grand 
Cliatelet,  the  eye  A\'ould  naturally  glaiice  up  the  long 
street  of  the  Temple,  towards  the  noilh,  until  it 
en.countered  the  square  tower,  flanked  by  four  turrets  of 
that  massive  structure,  wdiich,  nearlv  two  centuries 
before,  had  been  reared  by  the  Order  of  the  Templar 
Knights.  Turning  back  to  the  Cite,  seated  upon  its 
island  in  the  Seine,  the  attention  is  first  arrested  bv  the 
huge  Palace  of  Justice,  with  its  cluster  of  round-pointed 
towers,  wdiere  old  Hugh  Capet  fixed  his  residence  eight 
hundred  years  ago,  and  which,  for  three  centuries,  was 
the  }ialace  and  the  prison  of  the  kings  of  France.  It 
had  well  nigh,  also,  become  a  church;  for  in  1242,  St. 
Louis,  in  his  pious  zeal,  reaped  in  its  very  midst  La 
Sainte  ChajjeUe  du  Palais^  and  made  it  the  repository  of 
whole   cartloads   of  holy   relics — limbs  of  saints  and 


56 


PARIS  IN  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


martyrs,  and  portions  of  the  true  Cross,  bequeathed  him 
l)j  his  pions  grandsire,  the  emperor  Baudoin.  In  1313, 
the  entire  structure  was  rebuilt  hy  his  own  grandson, 
Phihp  le  Bel 

Glancing  up  the  Island  of  the  Cite,  the  eye  next  rests, 
as  it  passes,  on  the  venerable  Hotel  Dieu,  founded  by 
the  pious  St.  Landry,  three  centuries  before ;  but  it 
instantly  comes  to  a  full  stop  before  the  massive  twin 
towers,  more  than  two  hundred  feet  high,  of  the  marvel- 
lous Cathedral  church  of  Notre  Dame,  which,  even  then, 
reared  as  it  was,  on  the  foundation  of  old  St.  Stephen, 
its  predecessor,  was  nearly  eight  hundred  years  olii. 

Crossing  the  Seine  on  the  Petit  Pont  with  its  three 
stone  arches,  and  through  the  cavernous  gateway  of  the 
Petit  Chatelet,  the  sole  connecting  link  between  the 
city  and  the  southern  bank,  the  eye  sweeps  over  the 
abbeys,  churches  and  colleges,  with  which,  even  then,  the 
Universiie  was  filled,  and  which  gave  it  a  name,  but 
rests  chiefly  on  the  graceful  towers  of  the  Mathurines, 
the  Bernardines,  the  Augustines,  the  Benedictines  and 
the  Cordeliers,  and  those  of  the  ancient  abbey  of  St. 
Germain  des  Pres.  It  pauses,  too,  upon  the  old  gothic 
turrets  of  the  Hotel  de  Cluny,  and  the  romantic  arches 
of  the  Palace  des  Therm es, — a  Eoman  palace  in  the  days 
of  Julian,  but  in  the  fourteenth  century  serving  only, 
with  its  deserted  gardens,  and  desolate  chambers,  and 
dim,  mysterious  aisles,  to  afford  to  the  ladies  of  the 
Court  a  safe  and  quiet  rendezvous,  (according  to  St. 
Foix,)  lovers  they  dared  not  meet  at  their  own  homes. 

Still   descending  the  river  bank,  you  pause  for  a 


PARIS  IN  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


57 


moment  to  look  at  the  washer  women  along  tlie  qnaj, 
when  your  attention  is  finally  arrested  by  the  tall  round 
tower  of  the  liotel  de  Nesle,  directly  before  you  on  the 
north,  the  base  of  which  is  bathed  by  the  rushing  waters 
of  the  Seine,  here  crossed  in  the  fourteenth  century  by 
the  ferry  of  the  Nesle,  but  in  the  nineteenth  by  the 
Pont  des  Arts ;  while  on  the  islet  between  is  a  garden  of 
the  Louvre. 

Such  were  the  prominent  points  in  the  Paris  of  the 
fourteenth  century — the  Louvre,  the  church  of  St. 
Germain  I'Auxerrois,  the  Temple,  the  Pet't  Pont  and 
the  Pont  au  Chanoe  with  the  Grand  and  Petit  Chace- 
lets,  the  Palace  of  Justice,  the  Hotel  Dieu,  Notre  Dame 
and  the  Tower  of  Nesle ;  and  such,  strange  to  tell,  after 
a  lapse  of  more  than  five  hundred  years,  even  at  the 
present  day,  they  still  remain.  The  very  names  of  the 
streets,  as  well  as  of  tlie  structures  of  Paris,  nre,  to  a 
great  extent,  the  same  they  were  centuries  ago.  And 
these  names  of  streets  and  structures,  ns  av ell  as  their 
several  relative  localities,  the  reader  may  do  well  to 
remember,  inasmuch  as  they  will  be  subject  to  reference 
more  than  once  in  the  pages  which  succeed. 


5B 


THE  BRIDAL  FETE, 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  BRIDAL  FETE. 

HOEYER  would  revel  in  the  recital  of  tlie 
splendid  deeds  of  a  chivalric  age — the  tilts  and 
the  tournaineots,  the  sieges  and  the  marches,  the  amours 
and  the  wassailings,  the  bridals  and  the  burials,  the 
glory  and  the  guilt  of  feudal  times — let  him  peruse  the 
illumined  chronicles  of  Sir  John  Fj'oissart. 

"  Did  you  ever  read  Froissart?  "  said  Claverhouse,  in 
Walter  Scott's  "  Old  Mortality." 
"  No !  "  was  Morton's  answer. 

"I  have  half  a  mind,"  ]-etnrned  Claverhouse,  "to 
contrive  you  should  have  six  months'  imprisonment,  in 
order  to  procure  you  that  pleasure." 

Tuesday,  tlie  26th  day  of  August,  in  the  year  of  grace 
one  thousand  three  hundred  and  five,  was  ushered  in  for 
the  citizens  of  Paris  by  a  grand  ]teal  from  the  twin 
towers  of  Notre  Dame,  in  the  Cite,  to  which  the  palaces 
of  the  Ville^  on  the  north,  and  the  Abbeys  of  the  Univer- 
site,  on  tlie  south,  sent  back  an  exulting  answer. 

It  was  the  bridal  day  of  Philip,  Count  of  Poitiers, 
surnamed  the  Long,  second  son  of  Philip  le  Bel,  King  of 
France,  and  Jane,  youngest  daughter  of  Othon  Fourth, 
Count  Palatine  of  Burgundy,  and  s'ster  to  Blanche,  the 
wife  of  Charles  le  Bel^  Count  of  Marche,  the  youngest 
son  of  the  King. 


THE  BRIDAL  FETE. 


59 


111  tlie  year  129-4,  Jane,  when  but  two  years  of  age, 

liad  been  affianced,  at  Yincennes,  to  lier  destined  bus- 
band,  and  he  to  her,  agreeably  to  the  custom  of  the 
times  ;  and  she  was,  aceordaigh',  but  fourteen  when  the 
bridal  ceremony  was  celebi'ated. 

Of  the  splendid  procession  of  lords  and  lacbes  on  that 
marriage  morn,  from  the  old  Louvre  across  the  Pont  au 
Change,  to  Xotre  Dame — of  the  costly  costume  of  the 
bride,  and  the  gorgeous  litter  in  which  she  was  conveyed 
— of  tlie  solemn,  service  of  matrimony  then  and  there 
read,  by  AVilliam  Imbei't,  the  King's  Confessor,  and  the 
still  more  solemn  mass,  with  the  ceremonies  thereto  per- 
taining, wliicb  ensued — of  the  magnificent  pageant  of 
the  return  to  the  palace,  and  the  marvellous  music  of  the 
trumpeters,  and  the  glittering  array  of  lords  and  ladies, 
and  princes  and  damsels  ;  and  of  the  sumptuous  dinner 
then  served  up  bv  counts  and  barons  on  the  vast 
mai'ble  slab  of  the  Hall  of  St.  Louis  ; — of  all  this,  would 
it  not  seem  presumptuous  for  us  to  essay  description, 
when  so  many  scenes  of  the  self-same  similitude  are  so 
vividly  portrayed  by  the  glowing  pen  of  the  Canon  of 
Chi  may?  * 

The  fete  of  that  night,  with  whicli  the  events  of  the 
day  were  terminated,  in  tlie  grand  hall  of  the  Louvre, 
was  the  most  magnificent  even  of  that  magnificent  era. 
All  the  beauty,  and  all  the  chivalry,  and  all  the  nobility 
of  France  w^ere  there  assembled.  The  windows  streamed 
forth  the  blaze  of  flambeaux,  and  the  wdiole  atmosphere 

*  Froissart  was  priest,  canon  and  treasurer  of  the  collegiate  cliurch  of 
Chiniay. 

4 


60 


THE  BRIDAL  FETE. 


breatlied  a  biirtlien  of  sweet  sounds  ;  and  all  were  merry, 
and  joyous,  and  gay — all,  save  slie  Avho  should  have 
been  most  so — she,  the  young  and  the  beautiful  bride! 

Jane  of  Burgundy  was  very  young;  but,  like  most  of 
her  cotemporaries,  her  knowledge  of  the  world  far 
exceeded  her  years.  Her  union  with  the  Count  of 
Poitiers  was  not  of  her  seeking;  neither  was  it  of  his. 
It  was  simply  an  act  of  the  ambitious  and  unscrupulous 
Philip  of  France  to  augment  his  power  ;  and  little  cared 
he  whether  the  instruments  which  conduced  to  his  pur- 
poses loved  each  other  or  hated  each  otlier. 

Jane  of  Burgundy  was  a  beautiful  blonde.  Her  eyes, 
her  hair,  her  complexion,  were  all  light,  and  her  form 
Avas  full.  And  yet,  in  her  clear  eye,  and  on  her  red  lip 
was  exhibited  a  degree  of  decision  which  her  other 
features  would  never  have  betrayed. 

One  after  the  other  all  tlie  guests  of  that  splendid  fete 
approached  the  bride  and  expressed  their  homage  and 
congratulation.  The  devoir  of  each  was  courteously,  yet 
coldly  received,  and  the  eye  of  the  young  girl  glanced 
restlessly  and  excitedly  around,  as  if  in  search  of  one 
who  had  not  yet  aj-tpenred. 

At  length,  suddenly,  at  her  feet,  upon  one  knee,  as 
was  the  manner  of  all,  bowed  a  young  man,  in  the  garb 
of  the  court.  His  figure  was  faultless,  his  movements 
graceful,  his  dress  rich  and  his  face  eminently  hand- 
some, though  ghastly  pale. 

The  cheek  of  the  bride  was  instantly  as  livid  as  his 
own ;  but,  as  he  knelt,  a  flush  mounted  to  her  brow,  and 
she  glanced  uneasily  around. 


THE  EPJPAL  FETE. 


61 


"You  here,  Walter!"  sbe  at  leiigtli  exclaimed,  look- 
ing down  with  all  of  woman's  fondness  at  the  graceful 
form  at  her  feet.  "Rise!  rise  I"'  sbe  added,  extending 
her  white  and  ungloved  hand,  which  the  young  man 
wai'mly  grasped  and  pressed  in  silence  to  his  lips. 
"Why,  oh,  why  have  you  come?"  she  hurriedly  con- 
tinued. 

"To  see  you  for  the  last  time,"  was  the  hollow 
iswer. 

"The  last  time!"  anxionslj^  returned  the  bi'ide. 

"Are  you  not  happy?"  was  the  quick  rejoinder. 

"  Happy ^  Walter !  Look  at  me  and  then  ask,  if  you  can,. 
'Are  you  happ}^  ?  '  " 

The  young  man  raised  his  eyes,  hitherto  fixed  on  the 
earth,  at  this  imploring  request,  and  the  utter  wretched- 
ness depicted  on  that  pale  but  beautiful  face,  and  in  those 
large  blue  ej'es,  made  him  start. 

"Ah,  you  are  as  miserable  as  I  am  !  "  he  murmured, 
and  again  fixed  his  gaze  despairingly  on  tlie  ground. 

"And  you  love  me  yet?"  asked  the  bride. 

"Love  tlieel— more  dearlj^  than  my  life!" 

"And  3^ou  will  be  true  to  me,  happen  what  may?" 

"And  you? " 

"Have  you  not  my  vow?"  Avas  the  quick  answer. 
"That  Yo\Y  shall  be  observed,  though  my  life  prove  the 
forfeit." 

"  Impossible !"  murmured  Walter,  shaking  his  head 
with  a  mournful  smile. 

"  Nothing  is  impossible  to  a  woman  resolved.  Besides, 
Philip  loves  me  no  more  than  I  love  him,  and  what  is 


i  62 


THE  BRIDAL  FETE. 


belter,  he  does  love  another  as  dearly,  perhaps,  as  I  do 
you.  Stay!  look!  see  you  not  in  the  shadow  of  yon 
alcove  two  figures — a  man  and  a  woman?  The  man 
is  my  husband — the  woman  is  the  Countess  of  Soissons, 
and  she  is  as  wretched  as  you  are,  and  lor  the  same 
cause,  and  his  vow  to  her  is  the  same  as  mine  to  you." 

The  young  man  looked  as  he  was  directed,  but  made 
no  reply. 

"I  tell  thee,  Walter,"  earnestly  added  the  bride,  "that 
this  marriage  is  entirely  an  act  of  the  King  for  the 
furtherance  of  his  own  ends,  and  that  to  resist  his  will 
would  have  proven  utterly  futile,  either  for  Philip  or 
myself,  however  much  such  might  be  the  wish  of  both. 
But  go,  go!  we  are  observed!  The  King  approaches! 
We  go  to  Vincennes  in  three  days.  You  will  be  there," 
she  added  hurriedly.    "Now  go  !  " 

The  young  man  passed  on  and  was  lost  in  the  throng. 

"  You  are  pale,  my  fair  daughter,"  said  the  King,  in  a 
low  tone,  with  his  peculiar  smile,  fis  he  approached. 
Then  in  a  still  lower  tone  he  added,  "Be  more  cautious, 
Jane.  The  face  often  reveals  what  no  torture  could 
wring  from  the  lips." 

The  warning  was  not  without  its  effect.  The  signifi- 
cance of  the  royal  words  was  too  plain  to  be  misunder- 
stood. Keassured,  self-possessed — smiles  which  had 
long  ceased  to  be  seen  now  lighted  up  that  beautiful 
face. 

"Poor  thing!"  muttered  Philip,  as  he  passed  away 
from  the  bride.  "It  is  plain  she  loves  Walter  de  Launai, 
the  handsome  Equerry  of  Charles.    Well,  well — be  it 


THE  BRIDAL  FETE. 


63 


so,"  lie  added,  with,  a  tlionglitfal  smile.  "What  care  I? 
The  bride  loves  the  bridegroom  as  dearly  as  the  bride- 
groom loves  the  bride,  IVe  no  doubt.  But  tliej  must  both 
be  discreet.  I'll  have  no  scandal  in  the  Louvre.  Ah, 
there  are  De  Nogaret  and  De  Marigni,  metliinks.  Let 
us  discover  of  what  they  commune  so  earnestly." 

or  the  two  men  to  Vv^hom  the  Kino-  alluded,  and  wliom 
he  now  approaclied,  one  was  Wilham  de  Nogaret, 
Chancellor  of  the  realm,  and  the  other  Enguei'i-and  de 
Marigni,  the  King's  Prime  Minister.  The  former  was 
large  in  stature — the  latter  small;  the  garb  of  both  was 
black. 

"When  the  Minister  and  the  Cliancellor  of  France  are 
observed  in  sucb  close  converse  amid  a  scene  like  this," 
remarked  the  King  to  the  nobles,  after  the  usual  saluta- 
tions, "one  may  well  infer  that  the  topic  of  which  they 
treat  is  one  of  some  moment." 

The  two  dignitaries  looked  on  each  other  with  ill-dis- 
sembled solicitude. 

"  Sire,  a  courier  has  just  arrived  from  Perouse,"  said 
De  Marigni. 

"lla!"  cried  the  King.  "And  the  Pope — who  has 
been  chosen?  " 

"Sire,  the  bitterest  of  ^^our  foes." 

"And  wlio,  pray,  may  he  be?"  asked  the  King. 

"  Bertrand  de  Goth,  Archbishop  of  Bordeaux." 

"Indeed!  indeed!"  rejoined  the  King,  with  well -sim- 
ulated anxiety.  "Then  we  must  prepare  for  a  new  con- 
flict with  Rome,  I  suppose;  for  the  Holy  Father  is  not 
only  the  most  deadly  of  my  foes,  but  he  was  the  most 


64 


THE  BEIDAL  FETE. 


devoted  of  friends  to  Boniface  Eighth,  of  cursed  memory. 
Wiien  does  the  consecration  take  place  ? "  continued 
Philip,  after  a  pause. 

On  the  15th  day  of  November  next,  Sire,  in  the 
church  of  St.  Just,  at  Lyons/'  replied  De  Nogaret. 
"  At  Lyons,  say  you  ?  " 

"  At  Lyons,  Sire  ;  and  your  Majesty,  together  with  tlie 
King  of  England,  and  an  immense  concourse  of  princes, 
lords  and  ecclesiastics,  is  to  be  bidden  to  be  present." 

"Well  done,  Berti'and  de  Goth!"  cried  tlie  King. 
"  Why,  he  bears  his  honors  bravely  1  And  the  Cardinals 
• — have  they  been  summoned  to  ci'oss  the  mountains  to 
afsist  at  the  coronation?  " 

"Sire,  tliey  have.  Immediately  on  receipt  of  the 
decree  of  his  election,  the  Archbisliop,  as  if  only  await- 
ing intelligence  of  the  event,  at  once  entered  on  the 
exercise  of  Papal  power.  Leaving  his  diocese,  he  made 
triumphant  progress  through  the  cities  of  southern 
France,  and  repaired  to  Montpelier  to  receive  the  oath  of 
liege  homage  from  James  of  Arragon,  who  placed  Cor- 
sica and  Sardinia  under  the  protection  of  the  Holy  See." 

"Why,  that,  methinks,  is  somewhat  in  derogation  of 
the  rights  of  our  brother  Charles  of  Valois,  who  received 
the  sceptre  of  that  realm  from  Pope  Martin  Fourth, 
when  Don  Pedro  was  laid  under  the  ban  of  excommuni- 
cation.   Is  it  not  so,  gentlemen  ?  " 

"  Sire,  it  is,"  was  the  reply. 

The  King  looked  thoughtfully  on  the  ground  for  a 
moment  in  silence. 

"The  Privy  Council  will  meet  in  the  morning  to 


THE  BRIDAL  FETE. 


65 


confer  on  tliis  event,"  said  the  King.  "I  will  detain 
you,  gentlemen,  no  longer  from  the  fete." 

"All  goes  well,"  murmured  Philip,  as  he  passed  on 
and  mingled  with  the  throng. 

A  degree  of  license  now  pervaded  the  fete,  f)s  the 
night  advanced,  which  had  not  at  first  been  witnessed. 
The  fair  bride,  having  received  the  formal  C(mgratala- 
tions  of  tlie  court,  left  her  chair  of  stale  upon  the 
elevated  dais  at  the  upper  extremity  of  the  apartment, 
beneath  a  canopy  of  sky-blue  velvet  bespangled  with 
stars,  and  retired  with  her  ladies  from  the  hall.  She 
shortly  reappeared,  however,  divested  of  her  bridal 
toilette — the  tall  head  dress  ascending  to  a  ])oint,  from 
which  descended  a  wliite  veil  to  her  feet — the  full  mantle 
of  rose  velvet,  with  its  hanging  sleeves,  and  tlie  white 
robe,  with  its  endless  train, — and,  simply  att.red  in  shot 
pink  taffetty,  Avith  no  other  ornament  to  her  head  tlian 
the  luxuriant  masses  of  her  beautiful  hair,  and  no  other 
ornament  to  her  person  than  a  zone  of  beaten  gold,  which 
cinctured  her  delicate  \a  aist. 

The  reappearance  of  the  bride  was  the  signal  to  the 
guests  to  indulge  without  restraint  in  any  of  the  modes 
of  entertainment  at  that  era  in  vogue  at  the  French 
court.  The  night  being  excessively  hot,  the  doors  lead- 
ing to  tlie  royal  gardens  were  thrown  open,  and  the  long 
avenues  and  shady  alcoves  were  soon  filled  with  prom- 
enaders  enjoying  the  refreshing  influences  of  the  open  air, 
or  listening  to  the  delightful  strains  of  the  martial  bands, 
or  the  still  more  delightful  melody  of  the  notes  of  love. 
Dancing,  though  sometimes  indulged  in,  was  rather  an 


66 


THE  BRXPAL  YETK. 


amnsement  of  the  servants'  liall  and  village  green  than 
of  royal  gardens  and  courtly  saloons.  In  those  days, 
unlike  the  present,  ladies  were  moi"e  skilful  with  their 
tongues  than  with  tlieir  toes,  and  the  promenade  pre* 
sented  tliein  an  opportunity  of  listening  to  a  lovei''s 
vows  and  declarations,  and  of  exchanging  for  them  their 
own,  which  the  dance  cotdd  never  afford.  And,  even  to 
this  day,  all  over  Europe,  the  dance  is  eminently  the 
amusement  of  the  peasant,  and  has  never  in  courtly 
circles  superseded  conversation,  intrigue,  music  and  the 
promenade.  The  savages  of  the  Archipelago  of  the 
Pacific  seas,  and  those  of  the  North  American  forests, 
know  nothing  of  amusement  at  their  festivals  but  to 
feast  and  to  dance;  and  in  one,  at  least,  of  the  nations  of 
Christendom,  in  modern  times,  imitators  have  not  been 
wanting. 

The  court  of  the  Louvre,  at  the  commencement  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  was  far-famed  for  its  brilliant  and 
beautiful  women;  and  among  these,  Margaret  of  Bur- 
gundy and  Blanche  of  Artois  bore  deservedly  the  palm. 

The  former  of  these  ladies  was  the  wife  of  Louis  le 
Hutin^  eldest  son  of  the  King,  and  daughter  of  Eobert 
Second,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  and  Agnes,  the  pious 
daughter  of  St.  Louis.  She  was,  also,  Queen  of  JSTavarre, 
that  crown  having  descended  to  Louis  by  the  decease  of 
his  mother,  Jane  of  Navarre,  who  died  at  the  chateau 
of  Yincennes,  on  the  second  day  of  April,  1305,  a  few- 
months  previous.  Indeed,  the  robes  of  sable  velvet  yet 
worn  by  the  young  Queen,  and  which  so  well  became 
her,  although    upon  an  occasion  of  bridal  festivity, 


THE  BRIDAL  FETE. 


67 


indicated  the  recent  occarrence  of  tliis  sad  event.  Her 
figure  was  tall  and  graceful,  and,  notwithstanding  her 
vouth,  exhibited  all  the  lull  and  rounded  contour  of  a 
matured  woman.  iBer  eyes  were  large,  dark,  and  full  of 
fiYQ — Ijer  hair,  which,  was  loosely  wound  around  a  sym- 
metrical head  in  heavy  masses,  was  as  black  as  midnight, 
and  her  complexion,  in  auC(jrdance  with  tlie  liue  of  her 
hair  and  eves,  was  that  of  a  decided  brunette.  Hers  was 
a  beautv  to  ccmimand  love — not  to  win  it  ;  and,  as  un. 
mistakably  were  imperious  pride  and  insatiate  passion 
depicted  upon  that  voluptuous  lip,  as  was  a  strong  and 
active  intellect  exhibited  in  that  capacious  and  mascu- 
line bi'ow. 

Terv  different  from  the  proud  Queen  of  Xavarre  Avas 
Blanche  of  Artois,  Avife  of  Charles  k  Bel,  the  loA'el}' 
Countess  of  iMarclie.  She,  too,  like  iMargaret,  was  very 
voung — neither  of  the  ladies  having  yet  attained  tlieir 
twentieth  vear.  She  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  the 
Count  of  Burgundy  and  iMaade  oP  Artois.  and  sister  to 
Jane,  heii'ess  of  Burgundy,  the  fair  bride.  Only  one  year 
before  she  had  herself  become  a  bride,  and  just  the 
twelvemonth  prior  to  that  event,  had  been  witnessed  tlie 
nuptials  of  Margaret  and  Louis  in  the  Cathedral  Church 
of  Xotre  Dame,  as  well  as  the  subser|uent  fete  in  the 
same  hail  of  tiie  Louvre. 

There  was  between  Blanche  of  Artois  and  her  sister 
Jane  that  indescribable  resemblance  which  is  often  ob- 
served between  person.s  bearing  to  each  other  the  rela- 
tion of  sister,  wlien  it  is  impossible  to  point  out  in  wliat 
that  resemblance  actuall}'  consists,  and  when  their  style 


68 


THE  BRIDAL  FETE. 


of  face  and  figure  is  entirely  unlike.  The  form  of 
Blanche,  as  it  was  exhibited  by  her  white  robe  confined 
at  the  waist  hj  a  cordeliere  of  gold,  and  embroidered 
with  thread  of  the  same  material,  had  all  that  full  and 
rounded  outline  which  gave  such  fascination  to  that  of 
her  j^ounger  sister;  but  in  the  movement  of  the  former 
was  observed  a  grace,  and  a  dignity,  and  a  maturity  of 
elegance  which  the  latter  had  not.  The  hair  of  Blanche 
shared  that  rich  and  abounding  luxuriance  which  char- 
acterized her  sister's  ;  but,  tliough  not  black,  it  was 
many  shades  darker  than  Jane's,  fler  eyes  were  a  deep 
azure,  large,  brilliant,  shaded  by  long  lashes,  and  full  of 
most  eloquent  but  mournful  meaning.  Her  sister's  ej^es 
wei'e  blue  and  sparkling.  The  faces  of  both  were  oval ; 
but  while  the  expression  of  Jane's  countenance  was  arch 
and  mischievous,  that  of  Blanche's  was  sad  and  contem- 
plative. Indeed,  the  characteristic  trait  of  Blanclie  of 
Artois'  face  you  would  say  was  melancholy  thought; 
and  you  would  ask  of  yourselves  and  others  the  cause  of 
that  profound  and  changeless  sadness,  which  forever  rested 
on  that  beautiful  face.  That  large  azure  eye,  when  it 
beamed  most  brightly  beneath  her  broad  and  snowy  brow, 
seemed  steeped  in  gloom  ;  tliat  soft  lip,  when  it  smiled 
most  sweetly,  seemed  imbued  with  sadness ;  that  exquisite 
form,  when  it  moved  most  gracefully,  betrayed  the  languor 
of  grief  Her  voice,  when  she  spoke,  had  the  mournful 
music  of  a  broken  heart.  Why  was  it  that  the  most 
beautiful  w^oman  of  the  whole  court  of  France,  and  the 
envied  wife  of  "the  most  accomplished  man" — asdiis- 
torians  seem  to  delight  to  term  Charles  le  Bel — should 


THE    BRIDAL  FETE. 


69 


tlius  Avear  her  loveliness  forever  slirouded  in  gloom? 
What  badtf/^e,  the  loved  and  worshipped  of  all  in  that 
splendid  court,  to  disturb  lier  peace?  Was  she  not  too 
3'oung  to  have  proven  alread}^  the  worth! essness  of 
earthly  things — the  utter  vanit}^  of  all  worldly  pursuits 
— the  falseness  of  all  human  vows — the  deceitfulness  of 
all  human  hopes?  Had  she  so  early  in  life  contracted 
that  fearful  indifference  to  everj^thing,  whether  sad  or 
joyous,  which  sometimes  descends  on  the  human  heart? 
Alas!  the  mournl\d  truth  is  as  old  as  man's  history, 
that  maturity  of  years  is  not  indispensable  to  maturity 
of  thought,  and  that  youthfulness  and  suffering  are  not 
incompatible. 

"Sad,  as  usual,  Blanche!"  gayly  exclaimed  the  Queen 
of  Navari'e,  approaching  her  sister,  who,  half-concealed 
in  the  drapery  of  the  window,  was  gazing,  almost  unseen, 
upon  the  gay  groups  with  which  the  hall  and  gardens 
were  thronged. 

"Ah,  Margaret,  is  it  you?"  said  Blanche,  starting  at 
the  sudden  exclamation. 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,  Margaret  of  Burgundy,  Queen  of  T^avarre 
- — to  be  sure  it  is  ;  and  I've  been  seeking  y(m,  through 
bower  and  hall,  the  wdiole  half  hour  last  past,  at  least.  I 
will  honestly  confess,  however,  that  had  I  not  been 
blessed  with  an  agreeable  escort  in  my  self-imposed  pil- 
grimage, I  should  have  given  over  the  pursuit  long 
ago." 

The  escort  to  whom  the  Queen  thus  referred  was  none 
other  than  a  tall,  handsome  man  in  a  military  garb, 
whose  resemblance  to  Walter  de  Launai  was  so  striking 


70 


THE   BRIDAL  FETE. 


that  it  demanded  no  peculiar  powers  of  perspicacity  to 
determine  the  fact  tbat  they  were  brothers.  The  oidy 
observable  difference  between  tlie  two  seemed  this — that 
Walter  de  Launai  was  some  years  his  brother's  junior, 
and  that  Philip  de  Launai  was  as  gay  and  debonnaire  as 
his  brother  was  sad  and  pensive.  They  were  Norman 
gentlemen,  of  ancient  family,  who  had  recently  come  to 
court  to  seek  tbeir  fortune  ;  and  fortune  seemed  to  Lave 
met  them  at  least  half-way;  for,  altliougli  six  months 
had  hardly  elapsed  since  they  entered  Paris  with  all 
their  worldly  goods  upon  their  horses'  backs  and  their 
own,  yet  now  one  was  Equerry  to  Philip,  and  tlie  other 
to  Charles,  princes  of  the  blood,  and,  what  was  more, 
one  was  a  favorite  of  Margaret  of  Burgundy,  and  the 
other  the  secret  and  most  unhappy  lover  of  her  sister 
Jane,  the  bride.  I'he  matchless  skill  of  these  young- 
men  in  horsemanship  and  the  use  of  arms  doubtless  con- 
duced as  much  to  their  success  with  the  princes  as  did 
their  remarkable  good  looks  with  their  noble  mistresses. 
They  were  alike  then  in  good  fortune  and  good  looks. 
One  thing  more  they  were  also  alike  in  :  they  were  both 
Knights  Companions  of  the  Holy  Order  of  the  Temple. 
But  this  was  a  secret  of  which  their  noble  masters  were 
not  aware,  nor  their  noble  mistresses.  Yet,  young  as 
they  were,  both  had  bravely  fought  on  a  foreign  soil  for 
the  recovery  of  the  sepulchre  from  infidel  hands,  and 
both  were  warrior- monks. 

"  Have  you  seen  Charles  to-night  ?  "  asked  Blanche 
of  the  joyous  Queen. 

"  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Madame  d'  Aumale  in  one  of 


THE   BRIDAL  FETE. 


71 


tlie  alcoves  of  the  gardens  as  ^ve  came  in,  and  Charles 
cannot  be  far  from  the  same  spot/' 

Blanche  became  deatlilv  pale.  She  compressed  her 
lips,  but  otherwise  manifested  no  emotion,  and,  remain- 
ing silent,  tlie  Queen  thoughtlesslj'  continued. 

AVhv  don't  YOU  speak,  Blanche  ?"  she  impatient!}^ 
exclaimed.  "  Upon  my  word  as  a  Queen,  you  are  the 
strangest  woman  I  ever  knew  1  Young,  lovely,  brilliant 
— worshipped  by  the  men,  envied  by  the  Avomen,  the 
boasted  beauty  of  the  whole  conrt — you  might  as  well 
be  the  Lady  Abbess  of  Maubnisson  itself,  as  what  you 
are,  for  all  the  enjoyment  you  seem  to  experience  amid 
the  gavest  scenes,  and  all  the  gayety  you  manifest.  You 
never  dance,  you  never  sing,  yon  never  intrigue — you  do 
nothing  under  tlie  heavens  that  other  women  do  :  while 
upon  your  face,  and  seemingly  around  your  form,  you 
wear  an  everlasting  shroud.  In  Heaven's  name,  Blanche, 
smile  I — do  smile  once,  in  order  tliat  I  maybe  able  to 
say  that  I  once  did  see  the  Countess  of  Marche  smile, 
when  I  am  again  asked  the  c[uestion,  as  I  often  have 
been.  Oh,  no — not  in  that  mournful  wav,''  she  added, 
as  the  Countess  strove  to  obey.  Be  gay  !  be  joyous  1 
get  a  lover!  It  isn't  possible  you  heed  Charles'  amours. 
It's  the  men's  privilege,  I  suppose.  They  assume  it,  at 
any  rate.  I  was  jealous  of  Louis  for  about  three  months 
after  our  marriage,  and  at  length  saw  the  folly  of  the 
thing.  Since  then  he  intrigues  as  he  choses,  for  all  I  care, 
and  I  take  the  same  liberty.  But  you^  Blanche — you 
are  a  perfect  miracle  of  constancy — I  had  almost  said  of 
folly." 


72 


THE  BEIDAL  FETE. 


The  Countess  of  Marclie  cTianged  color  repeatedly 
wliile  tlie  tliouglitless  Queen  of  Navarre  tbus  heedlessly 
hurried  on,  and  more  than  once  a  slight  shudder  ran 
over  her  frame.  But  further  than  this  she  exliibited  not 
the  slightest  agitation.  Her  marble  brow  remained  as 
calm,  her  cheek  as  pale,  her  lip  as  motionless  as  ever, 
and  her  large  bright  eyes  were  fixed  with  the  same 
melancholy  gaze  on  the  gay  and  moving  scene. 

Suddenly,  as  the  Queen  ceased  to  speak,  she  grasped 
her  arm,  and,  with  more  of  interest  than  she  would  have 
been  deemed  capable  of  exhibiting  for  anything,  she 
exclaimed  . 

"  Margaret,  Margaret,  who  is  that  ? "  at  the  same 
time  pointing  at  some  person  in  the  crowded  hall. 

"  Who  is  who,  and  where  is  he  ?  "  returned  the  Queen. 
"  On  my  word,  Blanche,  3^ou  are  a  curiosity !  Here 
liave  I,  a  crowned  Queen,  been  proclaiming  to  you,  a 
simple  Countess,  a  whole  sermon  of  good  advice,  which 
Avould  put  to  the  blush  one  of  old  Father  Maillard's  best 
discourses,  with  which  we  are  regaled  every  Sunday  at 
St.  Germain,  and  you  have  bestowed  upon  it  just  about 
as  much  notice  as  I  usually  bestow  on  those  of  the 
old  Dominican — actually  sleeping,  or  seeming  to  sleep, 
throughout  the  whole  !  And  then,  all  at  once,  at  its 
conclusion,  you  almost  deafen  me  with  the  exclamation 
of  a  sentry  at  his  post,  "Who  goes  there?"  But  Heaven 
and  all  the  saints  be  glorified  that  you  are  not  dead ! 
Now,  then,  if  you  can  condescend  to  speak  once  more, 
where  is  the  individual  who  has  been  so  fortunate  as 
to  elicit  from  you  an  inquiry  ?  " 


THE   BRIDAL  FETE. 


73 


"There!  tliere!''  eagerly  exclaimed  BlancTie.  Tvliose 
eyes  had  followed  the  object  of  her  curiosity  while  the 
Queen  had  been  speaking.  "  Tnere — near  the  door 
leadino'  into  tije  oardeus!"' 

"iDo  you  mean  tlmt  pale  ^^oung  man  in  the  colors  of 
our  uncle  Charles  ot  Yalois,  who  is  waliking  with  one  of 
my  ladies?  " 

"Yes,  yes  ;  I  have  seen  him  repeatedly  to-niglit,  and 
always  with  the  same  lady ;  iMarie  Morfontaine,  is  it 
not?  "  replied  the  Countess,  witli  heightened  color. 

"Yes,  it  is  my  sweet  Marie,"'  rejoined  Margaret,  ''and 
tliat  young  man  is  her  lover.  He  has  just  arrived  with 
despatches  from  Charles'  camp.*" 

"Ahi"  returned  the  Countess,  in  a  tone  which  was 
almost  a  sigh,  while  her  countenance  fell. 

"It  is  young  De  Marigni,  is  it  not,  Philip?"'  ashed 
the  Queen,  addressing  for  the  first  time  the  voung  man 
at  her  side,  on  whose  arm  she  had  not  ceased  to  lean 
since  they  had  appeared. 

"It  is  De  Marigni,  your  Majesty — Adrian  de 
Marigni,"'  rephed  the  young  man.  "He  is  the  only  son 
of  the  Prime  Min.ister.  He  is  from  Normand}^,  like 
mj'self,  and  our  boyhood  was  passed  together.  TTe 
have,  also,  served  in  the  same  troop  in  Flanders,  under 
Count  Charles  of  Yalois.  He  was  at  Brussels  and  at 
Courtray,  and  also  at  Mons-en-Puelle,  where  twenty -five 
thousands  Flemings  were  cut  in  pieces.  He  is  a  per- 
fect lion  on  the  battle-field,  modest  and  inofilinsive  as  he 
seems  now." 

"  Why  is  he  so  pale? "'  asked  Blanche. 


THE  BRIDAL  FETE. 


"  He  was  severely  wounded  at  Mons,  madame.  He 
was  lel't  for  dead,  indeed,  upon  tlie  field  ;  but  the  cold 
dews  of  tbenigiit  revived  liim,  and  lie  managed  to  dis- 
encumber himself  from  the  heaps  of  Flemings  who 
had  fallen  by  his  hand  around  him,  and  creep  into  the 
camp." 

"And  what  was  his  reward  for  such  gallantry?'^ 
inquired  Blanche. 

"He  was  the  next  day  knighted,  madame,  on  the  very 
spot  drenched  with  his  blood,  by  the  accolade  of  Prince 
Charles  himself  and  with  the  title  of  Count  Le  Portier.'* 

"A  family  name  is  it  not  ?  "asked  the  Countess. 

"  It  is  the  name  of  a  noble  and  ancient  Norman  family, 
madame,  which  Adrian's  grandsire,  Hugh  Le  Portier, 
Lord  of  Rosey  and  Lyons,  resigned  on  his  marriage  with 
the  heiress  of  the  Count  de  Marigni — at  least  so  far 
as  his  children  were  concerned,  who  bore  their  mother's 
name." 

"  And  one  of  these  children  was  the  Enguerrand  de 
Marigni,  the  Minister?  "  continued  the  Countess. 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure  it  was  1 "  said  Margaret.  "  How 
tedious  3^ou  are  with  your  questions  about  this  young- 
Count.  If  he  inspires  the  same  interest  in  the  King 
that  he  seems  to  have  roused  in  you,  he  bids  fair  to  rise 
as  rapidly  as  his  father  did  before  him." 

"  And  how  rapidly  was  that,  Margaret  ?  "  asked  the 
Countess. 

"What!  does  your  curiosity  extend  to  the  father  as 
well  as  the  son?  "  said  tlie  Queen,  laughing.  "  Tell  her 
all  about  the  dear  De  Marignis,  if  you  can,  Philip.  I 


THE   BEIDAL  FETE. 


75 


don't  burtLen  m\'  memory  with  such  stupid  matters,  of 
course."' 

I  know  notliing  of  tlie  Sieur  de  Marigni,  madame," 
replied  the  voung  Xorman,  "save  wliat  came  to  us  by 
common  rumor  in  my  native  village,  where  deep  interest 
was  felt  in  tiie  fortunes  oF  one  who  had  gone  forth  from 
our  midst,  and  also  what  I  have  since  heard  at  the 
court.  I"ve  heard  mv  fatiier  say.  and  also  Adrian,  when 
we  were  boys,  that  the  moment  the  young  Enguerraiid 
appeared  at  couit.  the  graces  of  his  })erson,  the  elegance 
of  his  manners  and  the  brilliancy  of  his  talents  arrested 
attention.  This  was  many  3'eai-s  ago.  At  length  his 
political  knowledge  attracted  the  notice  of  his  Majesty, 
who  appointed  him.  first,  a  member  of  his  council,  tiieii 
gave  him  the  post  of  Cliamberhiin,  next  created  him 
Count  of  L'Uigueville,  and  finally  Inis  made  him  Gov- 
ernor of  the  Louvre,  Master  of  tl:e  Household,  and  last 
of  all  Prime  ^[inister  of  the  realm."' 

For  all  which  accumulation  of  favors  he  has  accuma- 
lated  the  envy  and  hostility  of  t'.:e  whole  court,  in  exact 
proportion,"'  said  t'le  Queen.  But  come,  come — let  ns 
go.  These  I)e  Marignis  will  l:^e  the  death  of  me  if  we 
tarry  longer.  Besides,  the  bride  has  gone  to  her  cham- 
ber, and  tlie  guests  are  going  to  their  homes.  I  must  go 
to  mine."' 

Stay  with  me  to-night  at  the  Louvre,  Margaret,'^ 
said  Blanche. 

"Xo.""  was  the  quick  answer,  oh  no.  I  must  cross 
the  Seine.  You  would  not  have  me  recreant  to  my 
trust,  would  you?    While  Louis  is  ruling  our  little 


76 


THE  BRIDAL  FETE. 


realm  of  Navarre,  at  Parapeluna,  and  the  Constable  of 
Nesle  is  in  camp  in  Flanders,  tlie  hotel  is  entrusted  entirely 
to  the  governance  of  the  young  Countess  and  m3^self;  and 
we  dare  not  desert  ou.r  post  even  for  a  single  night.  So 
adieu  to  you,  Blanche,  and  happy  dreams." 

"Shall  I  attend  your  Majesty  to  the  barge? asked 
Philip  de  Launai. 

"Shall  you?  Why  to  be  siire  you  shall!"  was  the 
abrupt  answer.  "  You  didn't  think  I  was  to  pass  the 
sentries  and  cross  the  drawbridge  alone  ?    Come  !  " 

And  putting  her  arm  through  that  of  her  companion, 
the  young  Queen  of  Navarre  turned  to  depart. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  hall,  the  couple  were  detained  a 
few  moments  by  the  crowd ;  and,  as  the  sad  Countess  of 
Marche  passed  them,  unobserved,  on  her  way  to  her  own 
apartments  in  the  Louvre,  these  words,  from  Margaret  to 
the  Equerry,  in  low  tones,  caught  her  ear: 

"The  half- hour  after  midnight — at  the  Tower  of 
Nesle  1" 


THE  HALF  HOUR  AFTER  MIDIsIGHT. 


77 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  HALF  HOUR  AFTER  MIDNIGHT. 

THE  heavy  bell  of  St.  Germain  1' Anxerrois  liad  tolled 
midniglit.  The  last  reveller  had  departed.  All 
within  the  Louvre  had  retired  to  their  rest.  The  lights 
were  extinguished, — the  niusio  had  ceased, — the  gaixlcn, 
the  qna}^,  the  courts  were  deserted.  No  sound  fell  on 
the  ea]',  save  tlie  measured  tread  of  the  sentry  upon  the 
battlements,  and,  at  intervals,  the  distant  cry  of  the  guar- 
dians of  Paris,  as  they  walked  their  lonely  rounds: 
"  Sleep — sleep  on,  good  people  of  Paris  I  All  is  well  I  " 
The  apartments  of  the  princes  of  the  blood  royal,  at 
that  era,  were  situated  in  that  front  of  the  quadrangle 
of  the  Louvre  Avhich  faced  the  Seine. 

At  a  window  in  one  of  these  apartments,  which  com- 
manded a  view  of  all  Paris  by  reason  of  its  elevation, 
sat  Blanche  of  Artois,  the  wife  of  Charles  le  Bel. 

Alone  and  unattended,  she  had  sought  tl.e  way  to  her 
chamber  from  the  festal  hall,  and,  having  dismissed  her 
women,  had  seated  herself  by  the  casement  which  looked 
out  on  the  gliding  water. 

From  the  quiet  skies  looked  down  the  bright  stars  as 
peacefully  and  as  calmly  as,  for  thousands  of  years,  they 
had  looked  before  ;  while,  here  and  there,  from  the  dark 
mass  of  irregular  structures,  which  then  constituted  Paris, 
beamed  out  a  single  light  of  some  lonely  watcher. 


78 


THE  HALF  HOUR  AFTER  MIDNIGHT. 


One  briglit  spot  whicli  gleamed  from  the  surrounding 
gloom  was  a  cell  at  the  summit  of  one  of  the  towers  of 
Notre  Dame,  which  to  this  day  bears  the  name  of  Hugo 
of  Besaii^'on's  cell,  where  the  learned  prelate  is  said  to 
have  practised  his  black  and  mystic  art.  Beyond  this, 
on  the  south  bank  of  the  Seine,  beamed  forth  another 
solitary  light,  from  a  tower  granted  by  Saint  Louis,  more 
than  fifty  years  before,  to  Eobert  of  Sorbonne  for  a  college, 
in  which  should  be  pursued  the  study  of  theology  ;  and 
there  some  lonely  student  now  continued  his  night-long 
vigil  and  toil.  One  other  lamp,  like  a  star,  shone  forth 
from  the  mass  of  gloom,  and  that  was  in  the  tall  tower 
of  the  Hotel  de  Nesle,  which  directly  fronted  the  southern 
apartments  of  the  Louvre,  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the 
Seine. 

Upon  this  last  and  lonely  light  lingered  the  eye  of 
Blanche,  as  with  cheek  resting  on  her  hand,  her  own 
lamp  extinguished,  she  sat  at  her  window,  and  looked 
forth  w^ith  melancholy  gaze  on  the  silent  scene.  The 
soft  breeze  of  a  summer  night,  cooled  by  its  play  upon 
the  surface  of  the  gliding  waters,  came  up  to  the  case- 
ment with  refreshing  breath  to  lier  fevered  brow. 
>  At  length,  the  half  hour  after  midnight  pealed  forth 
from  the  tower  of  St.  Germain  I'Auxerrois,  arid,  taken 
up  by  the  ponderous  bell  of  Notre  Dame,  and  the  lesser 
bells  of  St.  Germain  des  Pres,  and  the  Holy  Chapel  of  the 
Palace  of  Justice,  died  away  in  the  distant  echoes  of  the 
great  clock  of  the  Temple. 

As  the  last  vibrations  ceased,  a  small  boat  shot  out 
from  beneath  the  shadows  of  the  Louvre,  containing  a 


THE  HALF  HOUR  AFTER  MIDNIGHT. 


79 


single  passenger,  and  crossing  the  Seine  was  again  lost 
in  the  shadows  of  the  Tower  of  Nesle.  The  lamp  above 
which  had  served  as  a  signal  and  a  gnide  w^as  instantly 
extinguished,  and  Blanche  saw  no  more. 

For  a  few  moments  she  seemed  lost  in  melancholy 
thought,  as  she  gazed  on  that  dark  and  gloomy  pile. 
Then  her  eye  glanced  to  the  heavens  and  roved  from 
star  to  star,  as  if  with  agonizing  search  for  the  truths 
which  at  that  era  they  were  confidently  believed  to 
reveal. 

"Oh,  if  ye  are,"  she,  at  length,  murmured,  "if,  bright 
orbs,  ye  are,  indeed,  the  intelligences  which  foretell  to 
man  his  fate, — if,  indeed,  on  the  blue  fiimiament,  ye  unite 
the  destinies  of  nations  and  of  men,  3-e  should  often  beam 
less  brightl}^  from  your  quiet  homes  than  ye  now  doi  If 
ye  write  the  fates  of  all,  as  wise  men  tell  us,  there  is  mine 
written  on  your  gloomy  page.  Yet,  alas!  what  is  it? 
This  lonelj'  chamber  is  eloquent  of  all  that  ye  could 
blazon, — of  all  that  the  lip  could  express,  or  the  heart 
could  conceive.  A  Avife  without  a  husband  ; — a  heart 
fornied  by  its  Maker  to  love,  and  to  require  love,  and  yet 
without  its  mate!  Oh,  God,  howl  did  worsliip  that 
man  !  Xever,  never  again  wdll  he  be  loved  as  I  once 
loA'ed  him  !  Heart,  soul,  thought,  being,  breath,  my  very 
existence,  all — all  were  his!  But  now^^  slie  continued, 
after  a  |)ause,  "  now — I  love  him  not  I  I  deplore  only  my 
own  desertion, — not  his  loss.  I  love  him  not.  The  time 
has  passed.  Islj  very  heart  is  changed  in  my  bosom.  It 
seems  strange,  even  to  myself,  that  I  can  be  so  utterly 
indifferent  to  one  whom  I  once  so  dearly  loved.  It 


80  THE  HALF  HOUR  AFTER  MIDNIGHT. 


seems  strange  to  me  that  I  should  care  actually  nothing 
at  all  for  the  fact  that  be  who  should  now  be  with  me, — 
my  husband, — is  in  the  arms  of  another.  Once  it  was 
not  so  ;  and,  oh,  the  agony  I  then  endured !  Thank 
God — thank  God,  that  period  hath  passed!" 

A  pause  of  some  moments  ensued. 

"  The  heart — the  human  heart,"  she,  at  length,  ex- 
claimed, in  tones  of  mournful  sadness,  "  must  have  some- 
thing to  love!  Rightly  or  wrongly,  it  must  love  some- 
thing !  Margaret —  she  loves  — guiltily — darkly  —  des- 
})erately  ;  yet,  she  loves  !  Jane, — my  sweet  young  sis- 
ter,— she  who,  a  child,  wandered  with  me  on  the  great 
banks  of  the  Loire,  in  our  pleasant  home,  Burgundy,  and 
as  little  dreamed  as  did  I  of  our  miserable  womanhood 
to  come — she  loves  and  is  beloved ;  yet,  though  a  bride, 
she  loves  not  her  husband,  and  he — loves  not  her  !  Alas  1 
what  a  strange  and  wretched  world  it  is!  Those  whom 
by  man's  law  we  should  love  often  love  not  us,  and  the 
great  law  of  Nature  often  forbids  us  to  love  them  :  and 
those  whom  by  man's  law  we  should  not  love,  alas !  by 
Nature's  law,  love  us  and  we  love  them !  " 

Again  there  was  a  pause  of  longer  duration  than 
before,  and  as  at  length  the  unhappy  woman  raised  her 
eyes  to  the  peaceful  stars,  those  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  she  exclaimed,  ''what  is  to  be  my 
fate  ?  I — I  love,  too  !  At  last  this  heart,  which  so  long 
has  slumbered,  awakes  and  reasserts  its  claims.  But  can 
that  love  be  returned?  Alas!  which  misery  excuses  the 
other,  that  of  the  consciousness  of  a  love  which  is  crime, 
or  that  of  the  fear  that  this  guilty  love  may  not  be 


THE  HALF  HOUR  AFTER  MIDXIGHT. 


81 


returned  ?  But  it  must  be  returned, — it  shall  be, — it  vrUl 
be  [  A  heart  sacb  as  mine  will  brook  no  denial !  I 
care  not  that  he  now  loves,  or  seems  to  love,  another. 
He  shall  resign  that  love, — he  shall  love  me, — or  shall 
love  not  at  all!  What  knows  she, — a  weak-hearted, 
simple-minded  girl,  of  love  !  For  long  months  of  loneli- 
hess,  he  is  the  onlj  being  who  has  roused  in  this 
withered  heart  the  first  pulse  of  passion;  and  shall  all  be 
sacrificed  to  the  fickle  fancj  of  a  sillj  child?  My  love 
for  him  exceeds  hers  bj  ten  thousand  fold,  and  so  does 
mv  power  to  gratify  all  his  wishes.  Is  he  ambitious? — 
the  proudest  station  beneath  the  throne  shall  be  his.  Is 
he  covetous  of  wealth  ? — he  shall  revel  in  gold.  Pleasure, 
power,  pomp, — does  he  long  for  these? — they  shall  be 
his  more  fullj  than  his  imagination  ever  conceived. 
'My  influence  with  the  King,  though  seldom  tested,  has 
always  proved  omnipotent  when  exercised.  More  than 
once  he  has  consulted  me  on  matters  of  the  most  momen- 
tous import  to  the  welfare  of  his  realm,  when  he  has  con- 
sulted uone  besides,  and  it  must  go  hardly  if  he  refuse 
to  me  the  aid  which  I  render  himi  Yes — yes — "  she 
exclaimed  with  renewed  vehemence,  "he  shall  love  me, 
even  as  I  love  him, — or  both  of  us  will  die  I  " 

Dropping  on  her  knees  before  a  crucifix,  she  raised 
her  streaming  ejes  to  Heaven  and  exclaimed : 

"Hear  me,  God  1  To  this  object  do  I  devote  the  rest 
of  my  life  ! — to  his  happiness  and  my  own !  " 

For  an  hour  this  unhappy  woman,  whose  very  nature 
seemed  changed  by  misery  in  a  single  night,  paced  the 
limits  of  her  apartment  in  the  most  fearful  agitation. 


82 


THE  HALF  HOUE  AFTER  MIDNIGHT, 


The  golden  band  wTiicli  had  circled  her  waist  had  been 
removed,  and  her  rich  dress  hung  in  disordered  folds 
around  her  beautiful  form.  The  heavy  tresses  of  her  dark 
hair  were  disheveled  and,  strained  back  from  her  livid 
brow  and  face,  hung  in  tangled  masses  nearly  to  lier  feet, 
while  her  large  azure  eye  blazed  like  that  of  a  maniac. 

At  length  she  became  more  calm.  Tim  tempest  lulled, 
^the  billows  sank — the  quietude  of  exhaustion, — as  in 
God's  providence  it  ever  does, — succeeded. 

Seating  herself  again  at  tlie  window,  she  took  her 
harp,  and,  in  low  tones  of  touching  sadness,  accompanied 
it  with  the  following  song  : 

When  the  visions  of  Hfe,  evanescent  and  vain, 

With  the  hopes  of  our  youth,  like  a  vapor  depart. 

Oh,  what  shall  relume  those  glad  visions  again, — 
Oh,  how  shall  those  hopes  be  reborn  in  the  heart 

When  fading — still  fading,  like  stars  of  the  mom, 
The  Pleiads  of  gladness  go  out  in  our  sky. 

And,  like  lamps  from  the  damps  of  the  sepulchre  born, 
They  only  illumine  our  pathway  to  die  : — 

When  the  flowers  of  enjoyment  are  scentless  and  dead, 
And  the  chords  of  life's  harmony  silent  and  crushed. 

Oh,  what  shall  restore  those  ephemerals  fled, — . 

Those  stars  so  illusive, — those  harp-strings  so  hushed  ? 

They  are  gone — they  are  gone, — they  can  never  return, — 
Those  rainbow-phantasma,  deceptive  and  vain, 

And  hope's  vivid  visions  may  brilliantly  burn. 
Yet  never  more  visit  that  bosom  again. 


THE  LOVERS. 


83 


CHAPTER  Y. 

THE  LOVERS. 

TILTS  aud  tournahieuts,  pageants  and  processions, 
balls  and  banquets,  feasts  and  festivals,  succeeded 
each  other  in  uninterrupted  and  close  succession  for  sev- 
eral days  after  the  marriage  fete.  The  wliole  Court  par- 
ticipated in  the  entertainments  of  the  Louvre,  and  all 
Paris  assembled  at  those  more  public — especially  at  the 
tournaments  which  were  held  in  St.  Catharine's  square. 

The  King  mingled  but  little  in  these  gayeties.  His 
mind  seemed  profoundly  preoccupied  with  matters  de- 
man  dinsr  thouorht. 

He  was  often  closeted  with  Be  Marigni,  He  ISTogaret 
and  William  Imbert,  generally  known  as  William  of 
Paris,  his  confessor — his  confidential  advisers  in  all 
affairs  of  state;  and,  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day 
after  the  bridal,  Wilham  du  Plessis,  a  Dominican  monk, 
was  despatched  to  Avignon,  ostensibly  to  present  the 
congratulations  of  the  Kuig  of  France  upon  the  accession 
of  the  Archbishop  of  Bordeaux  to  the  Papal  See,  but 
actually  to  maintain  a  system  of  sleepless  espionage  on 
all  the  movements  and  all  the  proceedings  of  tho 
Sovereign  Pontiff  elect,  prior  to  the  event  of  his  corona- 
tion. Nearly  at  the  same  time  arrived  at  Paris,  Gail-: 
lard  and  Edmond  de  Goth  in  magnificant  array,  with  a 
splendid  retinue,  ostensibly  as  legates  from  their  brother, 


84 


THE  LOVERS. 


tlie  newly- elected  Pope,  to  announce  liis  elevation  to 
Philip, — but  really,  though  unknown  even  to  themselves, 
as  pledges  for  the  fulfillment  by  Bertrand  of  the  compact 
which  had  caused  his  election ;  and  still  more  really, 
and  known  to  themselves  and  their  brother,  though 
unknown  to  all  others,  yet  not  suspected  by  the  King, — 
as  emissaries  and  spies  of  the  Papal  See  at  the  Court  of 
Fi'ance.  IHiese  brotliers  of  the  Sovereign  Pontiff  were 
young,  chivalric  and  dashing;  and,  eminently  skilled, 
as  they  were,  in  all  the  martial  feats,  as  well  as  the  more 
pe-acelul  sports  of  the  day,  and  intimately  familiar  with 
all  the  newest  fashions  of  dress  and  inventions  in 
amusement,  they  coukl  but  prove  an  immense  acqui- 
sition at  the  French  Court  to  the  brilliant  pageantry  then 
going  on. 

In  all  these  magnificent  fetes  the  young  Queen  of 
ISTavarre  was  the  acknowledged  leader — the  cynosure  of 
a  splendid  Court,  the  star  to  which  all  eyes  were  turned, 
the  observed  and  the  admired  of  all  beholders,  and  the 
Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty  at  every  tournament.  And 
even  at  her  side  is  the  handsome  Equerry  Philip  de 
Launai ;  and  nightly  from  the  dark  Tower  of  Nesle 
gleams  out  the  love-lighted  lamp ;  and  nightly,  when 
the  half  hour  after  twelve  tolls  forth  from  tlie  church  of 
St.  Germain  I'Auxerrois,  the  solitary  boatman  crosses 
the  Seine  and  the  solitary  lamp  is  extinguislied  ;  and  the 
sleepless  watchman,  as  he  walks  his  rounds  in  the  distant 
streets,  is  heard  to  shout  r 

"  Bons  Parisiens  !  tout  est  tranquille! 
Dormez  !  dormez  !  il  est  minuit !  " 


THE  LOYEES, 


85 


Tlie  gallant  bridegroom  and  the  fair  "bride  were,  of 
course,  participants  in  all  the  festivities  of  the  occasion; 
and  never  seemed  bride  and  bridegroom  more  jovous 
tlian  tliey,  altbougli,  as  the  etiquette  of  that  era  and 
Court  prescribed,  they  were  seidom  seen  together,  and 
although  the  gay  Count  of  Poitiers  devoted  himself 
more  exclusively  than  ever  to  the  lovely  Clemence  of 
Soissons,  and  the  fair  Jane  detained  always  at  her  side 
her  favorite,  AValter  de  Lannai.  All  of  tLe  yoimg  peo- 
ple seemed  to  have  arrived  in  some  mysterious  man* 
ner  at  an  excellent  imderstanding  with  each  otLer:  and 
faces,  which  on  the  night  of  the  bridal  fete  seemed 
shrouded  in  gloom,  were  now  all  smishine.  Even  the 
mournful  beauty  of  Blanclie  of  Artois  seemed  illumined 
with  a  strange  joy:  and  so  far  from  manifesting  the 
slightest  emotion  of  feeling  at  tLe  open  and  undisgiiised 
devotion  of  her  gay  husband  to  the  dashing  Madame 
d'Aumale,  it  seemed,  on  the  contrary,  to  afford  her  secret 
gratification.  IMore  than  ever  before  did  she  mingle 
now  in  tLe  splendors  and  festivities  of  the  gay  Court, 
and  she  seemed  to  have  taken  under  her  own  special 
chajjerryaage  the  young  Marie  Morfontaine,  maid  of 
honor  of  the  Queen  of  Xavarre,  who  had  been  gladly 
entrusted  to  her  care.  To  ti:e  fair  M;irie.  as  well  as 
to  her  distinguished  lover,  the  brave  De  MarigTii,  this 
arrangement  was  peculiarly  delightful.  In  the  apart- 
ments of  the  Countess  of  MarcLe  was  afforded  tliem 
abundant  and  most  undisturbed  facility  for  the  tender 
process  of  love-making :  and  it  was,  indeed,  a  high  and 
most  distinguished  honor  to  any  young  lady  of  the 


THE  LOVERS. 


Court,  or  to  any  young  gentleman,  tliougb  even  the  son 
of  the  Prime  Minister  himself,  to  be  under  the  protec-^ 
tion  of  such  a  woman  as  Blanclie  of  Artois — a  woman 
who,  though  yet  not  twenty  years  of  age,  was  versed  in 
all  of  the  personal  and  intellectual  accomplishments  of 
the  times — who  could  discuss  theology  with  William  de 
Nangis,  write  poetry  with  John  de  Meun*,  canvass 
points  of  law  with  William  Duranti,  and  dispute  points 
of  doctrine  even  with  "the  subtle  doctor"  John  Duns 
Scotus  himself.  Nor  is  it  strange  that  a  man  like 
Philip  the  Fourth,  who,  dead  to  all  of  the  softer 
emotions  of  the  breast  seemed  alive  only  to  ambition, 
should  have  prized  a  woman  like  Blanche,  differing,  as 
she  did,  from  all  the  ladies  of  his  Court;  nor  that,  inas- 
much as  he  often  availed  himself  of  her  erudition  and 
sound  judgment  in  difficult  crises,  she  should  have 
acquired  over  him  an  influence  all  the  more  resistless 
-from  the  fact  that  it  was  seldom  exerted.  Indeed,  it  had 
become  almost  a  proverb  at  the  Court  of  Philip  the 
Foui'th  that  no  one  could  divert  him  from  a  purpose 
once  formed,  or  substitute  for  it  another,  save  his 
accomplished  daughter,  Blanche  of  Artois. 

To  the  young  De  Marigni  the  attentions  of  the 
Countess  of  March e,  both  to  himself  and  the  lady  of 
his  love,  were  peculiarly  grateful — grateful  not  only 
because  of  that  gratification  experienced  by  every 
young  man  in  the  notice  of  an  accomplished  woman  of 
himself  and  his  destined  bride — but  because  she  seemed 

*  Famous  for  his  continuation  of  the  celebrated  poem  entitled  "  The 
Romance  of  the  Rose,''  which  was  begun  forty  years  before  by  William  de 
Lorris. 


THE  LOVERS. 


87 


to  one  wliose  wliole  life  liad  been  passed  in  the  camp 
as  the  very  incarnation  of  all  that  was  lovely,  and  all 
that  was  brilliant,  and  all  that  was  good.  A  gallant 
soldier  and  thoroughly  vejsed  in  the  arts  and  arms 
of  war,  he  w^as  as  simple-hearted  and  as  nnsophis- 
ticated  as  a  child  in  the  ways  of  woman  and  the  world. 
To  him  the  bright  and  beantifal  Countess  of  Marche 
seemed  of  a  different  species  from  himself  and  his  little 
ladye-love,  and,  indeed,  from  every  other  woman  he  had 
ever  seen.  It  is  very  true  he  had  not  seen  very  many, 
for  f]-om  his  boyhood  he  had  been  in  the  field;  but  he 
had  never  even  dreamed  that  there  were  such  beinus  as 
the  sweet  and  intellectual  woman  under  whose  favor  he 
nuAV  found  liimself. 

Tiiere  was  another  thing,  also,  for  which  the  young 
De  Marigni  was  gTateful  to  his  noble  protectress.  His 
orders,  when  he  left  the  camp  of  Charles  of  Valois,  then 
at  Coartray,  with  despatches  of  the  utmost  importance 
for  the  King,  were  to  tarrj-  but  twelve  liours  at  the 
Louvre,  and  then,  with  all  speed,  to  hasten  back  with 
the  answer.  But  a  word  to  Philip  f^om  his  favorite 
Blanche  had  despatched  another  courier  on  the  perilons 
route,  and  detained  the  young  Count  at  the  side  of  the 
lady  of  his  love,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  most  brilliant 
festivities  Paris  had  ever  beheld. 

Adrian  de  Marigni  was  about  twenty-five  3iears  of  age, 
yet  already  had  he  achieved  renowm  for  gallantry  in  the 
field  of  which  CA'en  a  Marshal  of  France  n:iight  have  been 
proud.  Early  thrown  upon  his  owm  resources, — with  a 
strong  mind,  a  sound  education  and  a  vigorous  constitu- 


88  THE  LOVERS. 

tion,  lie  had  inured  liis  body  to  bardsliip  and  fatigue,  dnd 
accustomed  his  mind  to  prompt  and  energetic  action, 
under  every  circamstance  of  emergency  or  need  into 
which  he  might  be  cast.  Destined  from  his  boyhood  to 
the  profession  of  war,  and  familiarized  by  daily  practice 
to  all  the  ai'ms  and  armor  of  the  age,  he  had  acquired  a 
skill  in  their  use  which  left  him  without  a  rival  or  evea 
a  competitor.  Above  all,  he  possessed  that  quality  which, 
in  a  soldier,  can  be  second  to  none  other :  he  was  thur- 
ouglily  brave.  Like  all  men,  indeed,  who  are  conscious 
of  power,  he  seemed  utterly  unconscious  of  fear.  And 
yet,  with  all  his  accomplishments  and  all  his  abilities, 
and  all  his  distinctions,  there  was  not  among  all  the  offi- 
cers of  Prince  Charles'  camp  a  young  man  more  mild, 
or  more  modest,  or  more  retiring,  or  more  amiable  in  his 
demejinor,  than  was  Adrian  de  Marigni ;  and  surely  there 
was  not  one  more  universally  beloved.  In  person  he  was 
tall  and  slightly  framed,  and  his  hands  and  his  feet  were 
remarkably  small.  His  hair  was  brown,  his  eyes  a  dark 
hazel,  his  cheek  oval  and  bronzed  by  exposure,  altliough 
his  forulieacl,  where  protected  by  his  military  cnp,  was  as 
white  as  snow:  The  prevailing  expression  of  his  coun- 
tenance was  snd.  Indeed,  in  the  earnest,  almost  mourn- 
ful gaze  of  his  large  eye,  and  the  unchanging  quietude  of 
his  lip,  the  stranger  might  think  he  read  the  traces  of 
profound  thought,  or  of  deep-seated  sorrow,  strangely 
enough  contrasted  by  his  fresh  and  youthful  face. 
Strange  enough,  too,  was  the  contrast  between  the  ap- 
pearance of  that  delicate,  almost  eft'eminate  form  when 
in  the  camp  or  court  and  when  on  the  field  of  battle.  Jn 


THE  LOVERS. 


89 


tlie  former  all  was  mildness  and  quietude ;  hut  when  tlie 
war-horn  rang,  a  new  spirit- — a  spirit  from  the  very  realms 
of  the  damned — ^seemed  breathed  into  liis  fragile  form  ; 
and,  with  dilated  eye  and  set  teeth,  and  livid  cheek,  the 
fearful  phantom,  like  an  incarnate  fiend,  swept  over  the 
field,  and  rivers  of  human  blood  followed  the  fiery  flash 
of  that  terrible  falchion!  It  seemed  strange,  unnatural, 
dreadful,  that  one  so  fair,  and  seemingly  so  frail,  should 
possess  energies  so  terr.ble:  and  the  iron  grip  of  those 
soft  and  small  and  snowy  fingers  might  remind  the  one 
they  grasped  of  that  slight  and  delicate  hand — that 
woman-hand — that  hand  of  steel  clothed  in  a  glove  of 
softest  velvet  which  once,  by  infernal  skill  and  matchless 
n:iechanism,  constituted  one  of  the  most  exquisite  tortures 
of  the  Inquisition. 

Yery  different  from  this  young  soldier  was  the  lad 3^  of 
his  love.  She,  too,  was  one  of  an  ancient  and  respectable 
family:  but  early  leit  an  orphan,  her  immense  estates 
fell  under  the  control  and  she  under  the  guardianship  of 
the  Chancellor  ;  and  thus  came  she  to  Court  and  into  the 
train  of  the  Queen  of  Navarre.  Marie  IMorfontaine  and 
Adrian  de  Marigni  had  been  children  together,  and  their 
attachment  bore  an  earl\'  date.  But  Adrian  had  gone  to 
the  camp  and  Marie  had  gone  to  the  Court,  and  years  had 
passed  since  they  parted.  Their  love  was,  of  course, 
trustful,  truthful,  undoubting,  unexacting — with  but  lit- 
tle of  sentiment  and  still  less  of  passion.  It  was  not  very 
strange  that  the  young  soldier  loved  his  little  playmate, 
for  she  had  loved  him  and  never  had  loved  another; 
besides,  she  was  almost  the  only  woman  he  had  ever 


90 


THE  LOVERS. 


known.  She  was  beautiful,  too;  at  least,  slie  was  so,  if 
an  exquisite  little  figure,  joyous  blue  eyes,  brown  ring- 
lets, miscliievous  dimples,  and  teeth  as  white  as  pearls, 
lips  as  red  as  coral  and  forever  parted  by  a  smile,  can 
constitute  beauty  in  a  young  girl  of  sixteen.  And  then 
she  had  the  very  littlest  foot  in  the  world !  Her  love 
for  Adrian  was  that  of  a  child — almost  that  of  a  sister 
for  a  brother.  When  he  caressed  her  she  caressed  him 
again.  When  he  fixed  his  earnest  and  mournful  gaze 
upon  her  fair  young  face,  and  seemed  looking  down  into 
the  very  depths  of  her  soul,  enwrapped  in  mute  thought 
and  speechless  feeling,  she  wondered — the  simple-hear- 
ted girl — that  he  was  so  silent  and  so  sad.  "  Why 
don't  you  talk  to  me,  Adrian? "  she  would,  at 
such  times,  often  ask.  "  Why  do  you  look  so  sad  ?  " 
And  then  her  lover  would  gaze  upon  lier  more  sadly 
still;  and  while  a  mournful  smile  played  upon  his  lip  as 
he  pressed  it  to  her  forehead,  he  would  shake  his  head, 
but  speak  not  a  word.  Alas!  he  felt,  though  he  could 
comprehend  it  not,  that  her  simple  and  child-like  nature 
understood  not  and  sympathized  not  with  his.  And  yet 
Marie  loved  him  dearly — she  thought  she  loved  him 
better  than  all  the  world  beside  ;  she  did  love  him  as 
well  as  she  could  love  any  one — as  well  as  one  like  her 
could  love  one  like  him  ;  she  was  proud  of  him  as  her 
lover ;  she  wondered  at  his  achievements,  and  she 
thought  it  strange,  very  strange,  that  her  little  plaj^mate 
should  have  done  such  wondrous  deeds.  Sometimes, 
indeed,  she  would  question  him  of  his  battles  and  his 
camp  life ;  but  almost  instantly  she  would  turn  pale 


THE  LOVERS, 


91 


and  sliadder.  and  cover  Ler  eyes  Avitli  her  liands.  and. 
beseecli  him  to  cease,  and  ching  trembling  to  his  breast 
as  if  for  protection  against  the  fearful  shapes  of  her  own 
faiicv.  which  his  words  had  conjured  into  being.  Some- 
times she  would  examine  his  hands  with  childlike  sim- 
plicity and  wonder  that  such  small  and  white  and  deli- 
cate hands  could  ever  have  worn  an  iron  glove  and 
grasped  a  blade  or  a  lance,  and  have  become — oh, 
horror  ! — incarnadined  with  human  gore  I 

Sometimes  Adrian  would  smile  when  she  thus  talked 
to  him,  and  sometimes  he  would  sigh.  Sometimes  lie 
would  clasp  her  fairy  form  to  his  bosom  as  he  would  that 
of  a  child,  and  press  his  warm  lips  to  hers  ;  and  some- 
times, and  oftener  of  late  tlian  at  Ikst.  he  would  quiet!  v 
kiss  her  hand,  and  making  some  excuse  to  leave  her 
would  pass  into  the  apartments  of  the  Countess  of 
iMarche.  which  were  ever  oj  en  to  him.  and  where  he 
was  always  received  witli  smiles:  and  there,  hour  after 
hour,  would  he  sit  at  her  feet  as  if  entranced,  gazing 
upon  her  face  as  that  of  a  lovely  vision,  and  listening  to 
the  thrilling  tones  of  her  harp  or  the  still  more  thrilling 
notes  of  her  sad  yet  most  eloquent  tongue. 
6 


92 


TEE  ROYAL  HUNT. 


CHAPTER  YI. 

THE  ROYAL  HUNT. 

ONE  morning,  about  a  week  after  the  bridal  fete, 
the  paved  court  of  the  Louvre  was  all  alive, 
long  before  the  dawn,  with  horses,  and  hounds,  and  hunts- 
men, and  hostlers,  assembled  and  making  i-eady  for  a 
hunt  in  tbe  forest  of  St.  Germain,  each  man  and  beast 
making,  also,  to  all  appearance,  just  as  much  uproar, 
and  as  uselessly,  as  he  possibly  could. 

This  expedition  was  at  the  suggestion  of  the  Countess 
of  Marche,  and  the  whole  Court  were  enlisted  to  par- 
ticipate in  the  amusement. 

The  good  people  of  Paris  Avere  earlier  risers  in  1305 
than  they  are  at  the  present  day;  and  long  before  the 
early  summer  sun  had  shown  his  red  face  through 
the  mists  of  the  Seine,  above  the  forest  of  Yincennes, 
the  whole  magnificent  cortege  was  mounted  and  in 
motion. 

As  Blanche  of  Artois  had  descended  from  her 
chamber,  accompanied  by  Marie  Morfontaine,  who 
was  now  retained  constantly  near  her,  and  was  enter- 
ing the  court-yard  preparatory  to  mounting  her  horse, 
she  encountered  Edmond  de  Goth,  the  gallant  envoy 
from  the  Pope.  At  the  same  moment,  Adrian  de 
Marigni  api)roached  to  offer  his  services  as  usual  to 
Marie.    Blanche,  however,  immediately  advanced  and 


THE  ROYAL  HUXT. 


93 


took  his  arm.  Then,  turning  to  De  Goth,  she  quietly 
remarked,  with  one  of  her  sweetest  smiles : 

"You  will  take  good  care  of  Mademoiselle  Morfon- 
taine,  if  you  please,  Sir  Count.  She  is  of  the  utmost 
value  to  the  Count  le  Portier,  and  hardly  less  to  me." 

This  remark,  simple  as  it  was,  of  course  destined  the 
unfortunate  Marie  to  tlie  gallantries  of  tlie  envoy, 
instead  of  her  lover,  for  the  day,  and  at  the  same  time 
destined  De  Marigni  to  the  Countess  Blanche.  As  for 
Marie,  slie  was  as  uncivil  and  as  miamiable  as  one  of 
her  gentle  nature  could  be  to  her  gallant  escort,  for 
the  full  one-half  of  one  full  hour,  because  of  her 
disappointment,  he  being  the  innocent  instrument 
thereof.  But  then  her  gay  and  girlish  heart  g'ot  the 
better  even  of  hersell,  and  before  the  hour  had  actually 
fairly  elapsed,  she  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
Count  Edmond  de  Goth  was  really  a  very  gallant  and 
agreeable  cavalier — her  bitter  disappointment  to  the 
contrary  nevertheless. 

As  for  the  Countess  of  Marche,  she  was  mounted  on 
a  high-bred  barb,  of  small  size,  delicate  limbs,  fleet  as 
a  roe  and  black  as  a  raven.  And  surely,  thought 
Adrian,  as  he  threw  himself,  without  touching  the 
stirrup,  lightly  into  his  saddle,  never  had  he  beheld  a 
more  enchanting  vision  than  w^as  she  on  that  soft 
summer  morn.  Her  luxuriant  dark  hair  huno;  in 
glossy  ringlets  from  beneath  a  cap  of  black  velvet, 
shaped  much  in  the  fashion  of  the  riding  cap  of  the 
present  day — far  down  her  shoulders.  In  front  of  the 
cap   itself  was  a  glittering  brooch  of  rubies,  which 


94 


THE  ROYAL  HUNT. 


confiiiecl  to  it  a  single  ostrich  plume  of  snowy  white- 
ness, streaming  in  the  morning  breeze.  Her  habit  of 
blacli  velvet,  cut  low  and  opening  in  front,  betrayed  a 
most  exquisite  bust;  and  a  crimson  cordelilve  around 
the  waist,  defined  the  delicate  contour  of  its  outline. 
No  wonder  that  the  young  soldier,  fresh  from  the  camp, 
and  all  unused  to  visions  like  this,  gazed  on  as  if 
entranced. 

As  for  the  other  members  of  the  cavalade,  there  were 
the  King  himself  and  his  Minister,  De  Marigni,  who 
was,  of  coui-se,  charmed  with  the  distinction  bestowed 
upon  his  beloved  son  by  the  brilhant  Countess  of 
Marche.  Then  there  were  Charles  le  Bel  and  Madame 
d'Aumale,  and  the  Queen  of  Navarre  and  her  hand- 
some Equeriy,  and  the  Count  of  Poitiers  and  his  fair 
Clemence  of  Soissons,  and  the  lovely  bride  and  her 
devoted  Walter,  and  many,  many  another  fair  lady 
and  gallant  gentleman,  of  whom  history  telleth  much, 
but  of  whom,  as  not  being  essential  to  this  chronicle, 
we  must  say  nothing. 

Oh,  it  was  a  gay  and  gorgeous  cavalcade  that  swept 
out  from  the  northern  gate  of  the  Louvre,  and  up 
the  Rue  St.  Honore,  and  through  the  gate,  of  the  same 
name,  of  the  city  wall,  and  that,  finally,  as  the  sum- 
mer sun  rose  up  in  the  eastern  horizon,  paused  to  look 
back  from  the  heights  of  Montmartre  on  the  spires  and 
roofs  of  Paris,  now  glittering  in  the  golden  rays! 

And  a  magnificent  panorama,  indeed,  was  that  which 
opened  to  the  eye.  The  old  Louvre,  with  its  forests  of 
turrets   and  its   giant   keep  in  the  midst,  the  dark 


THE  ROYAL  HUNT, 


95 


Tower  of  Nesle  rising  beyond,  the  Gotliic  spires  of  St. 
Germain  l'Auxerro!s  and  its  wondrous  rose-window, 
the  ponderous  twin  towers  of  Notre  Dame,  rising  in 
massive  squareness  to  the  clouds,  the  glittering  Seine 
gliding  like  a  silver  thread  oh  a  dark  ground  through 
its  green  valle}^,  and,  far  away  on  the  left,  the  dusky 
pile  of  the  Temple  nprearing  its  huge  shape,  in 
ominous  gloom,  amidst  its  embattled  walls — sncli,  such 
was  the  scene  presented  to  the  gallant  cavalcade,  as," 
for  an  instant,  it  paused  to  look  back,  that  sweet  sum- 
mer morning,  at  the  rising  of  the  sun,  on  the  retreating 
city. 

The  cavalcade  was  followed  by  a  large  and  noisy 
company  of  attendants  —  hostlers  and  hunters,  and 
piquers  and  rangers;  and,  what  with  the  incessant 
braying  of  horns,  neighing  of  horses  and  yelping  of 
a  whole  army  of  hounds,  a  Babel  of  discordant  sounds 
was  created,  which  mio-ht  have  roused  old  King; 
Dagobert  himself  from  his  last  resting-place  in  the 
neighboring  Abbey  of  St.  Denis. 

Behind  this  motley  group  followed  more  slowly  a 
train  of  falconers,  each  bearinii;  on  his  fist  a  hooded 
hawk,  in  order  that  the  sports  of  the  day  might  be 
diversified  as  opportunity  might  present.  St.  Germain 
is  about  four  leaones  from  the  Louvre,  and  as  the 
Seine  was  twice  crossed  by  the  route,  it  was  more  than 
probable  that  a  flight  of  herons  might  be  raised  from 
the  dense  mallows  of  its  low  and  sedgy  banks. 

For  some  miles  the  splendid  company  galloped  gayly 
on,  until  it  descended  the  river  bank  at  Neuilly.  Here, 


96 


THE  ROYAL  HUNT. 


at  this  time  and  for  some  centuries  after,  existed  only  a 
ferry.  At  length,  in  1603,  Henry  the  Fourth  and  his 
Queen  having  been  soused  into  tlie  Seine  by  the  horses 
attached  to  their  carriage  taking  fright,  the  ferry  wns 
supplanted  by  a  wooden  bridge,  whicli  wooden  bridge 
has  itself,  in  our  own  time,  been  supplanted  by  a  more 
durable  and  niore. elegant  structure  of  stone. 

Tbe  river  had  been  safely  crossed,  and  the  party  was 
ascending  the  western  bank,  when,  suddenly,  with  a 
shrill  and  plaintive  cry,  a  large  white  heron  rose  fi'om 
the  neighboring  reeds,  and,  stretching  its  long  legs  and 
bi'oad  wings,  directed  its  heavy  flight  down  the  river. 
Instantly  all  was  uproar  among  the  hounds  and  their 
keepers,  and  half  a  dozen  hawks  were  at  once  unhooded 
and  let  off  by  the  falconers  at  the  unhappy  bird. 
Several  of  the  horses,  terrified  at  this  sudden  outcry, 
became  restive,  and  the  beautiful  barb  of  the  Countess 
of  Marche,  violently  plunging  and  rearing,  at  length 
seized  the  bit  between  her  teeth,  and  was  off'  hke  an 
arrow  down  the  precipitous  path. 

Blanche  of  Artois  was  an  accomplished  equestrian, 
as  well  as  a  woman  of  dauntless  nerve;  and  had  the 
route  been  unobstructed,  she  would,  doubtless,  not  only 
have  retained  her  seat,  but  have  reduced  her  i-efractory 
steed  very  shortly  to  submission.  But  such  was  not 
the  fact;  and,  swerving  from  the  main  road,  the  horse 
turned  to  the  right  into  a  narrow  bridle  path  Avhich  lay 
along  the  heights  which  overhung  the  river.  The  peril 
was  imminent  that  the  terrified  animal  should  leap  down 
the  steep  and  dash  herself  and  her  fair  rider  in  pieces. 


THE  ECYAL  IPJXT. 


97 


A  cry  of  LoiTor  rose  f;'om  the  roval  cortege  tlie^ 
bel.eld  the  danger,  and  several  of  the  gentlemen  were 
about  putting  spurs  to  their  horses  in  pursuit,  when 
they  were  abruptly  desired  to  draw  up  by  Adrian  de- 
Marigni.  Fortunateiy  the  young  Count,  who  was  as 
skilled  in  horsemanship  as  in  arms,  was  mouuted  on 
his  own  steed,  which  had  borne  him  through  an 
hundred  battles,  and  on  which,  in  any  emergency,  he 
knew  he  could  rely.  Plunging  his  rowels  into  the 
flanks  of  the  noble  animal,  and  at  tlie  same  time  shout- 
ing into  his  ears  his  well-known  Avar-cry,  in  an  instant 
horse  and  rider  were  flying  like  the  light  on  the  path 
of  the  fuoitives. 

It  was  at  once  evident  that  De  iMarigni  gained  in 
the  pursuit,  and  must  shortly  come  up;  but  the  peril 
was  more  imminent  now  than  ever  that  the  terrified 
barb,  hearino-  the  tramp  of  pui'suing  hoofs,  mioht  sud- 
denly swerve  to  the  right  into  the  underwood,  and  make 
the  fatal  plunge  before  his  headlong  course  could  be 
arrested.  Nor  was  this  apprehension  vain,  for  the 
moment  the  fiving  steed  perceived  another  horse  upon 
her  left  flank,  she  suddenly  wheeled  into  the  under- 
growth vrhich  fringed  the  precipitous  bank  on  the  right. 
Tvro  bounds  and  the  animal  was  on  the  brink  I  Until 
this  fearful  moment  the  Countess  liad  retained  her  self- 
possession,  but  now  her  fate  seemed  fixed,  and,  dropping 
the  reins,  she  clasped  her  hands  and  closed  her  eyes  for 
the  dreadful  plunge. 

At  that  instant — e^rz-n  at  the  instant  tliat  the  flying 
barbj  frantic   with    terror,  beholding  its  peril,  for  a 


98 


THE  ROYAL  HUNT. 


moment  seemed  striving  to  turn,  and  then  daslied  head- 
long down  the  height — even  at  that  instant  a  long  and 
iron  arm  woaud  itself  around  the  lady's  delicate  waist ; 
and  when  she  again  opened  her  e3'es  she  was  clasped  in 
safety  to  the  bosom  of  Adrian  de  Marigni ! 

"Ah,  Adrian,  I  knew  it  must  be  you  I"  she  mur- 
muieJ,  cliuging  to  his  breast.  The  next  instant  her 
gnisp  J'elaxed.    She  had  fainted. 

In  a  few  minutes  th.e  King  and  the  Count  of  Marche 
came  gallopiag  up,  followed  shortly  by  the  whole  caval- 
cade, at  full  speed.  Throwing  themselves  from  their 
horses,  they  at  once  gathered  ai'ound  the  Countess,  who, 
reclining  upon  a  mossy  bank  on  the  arm  of  her  preser- 
ver, was  beginning  to  I'cvive. 

"Is  she  harmed  ?— is  she  harmed  ?  "  shouted  the  King, 
in  tones  of  utmost  anxiety. 

'*  Not  in  the  least,  sire,"  calmly  replied,  the  young 
man  ;  "she  has  but  fainted." 

"  Heaven  be  praised  I  "  cried  Phihp.  "  Why!  I  would 
as  sooD  lose  my  crown  as  my  daughter  Blanche!" 

The  Count  of  Marche,  without  uttering  a  word,  but 
ghastly  pale,  had  leaped  from  his  horse,  and,  kneeling 
at  the  side  of  his  fainting  wife,  received  her  insensible 
f  )rm  from  her  preserver's  arms.  At  the  same  moment 
Blanche  slowly  opened  her  eyes.  They  met  the 
anxious  gaze  of  her  husband.  Shuddering,  she  again 
closed  them,  and  the  ladies  of  the  party  now  coming 
up,  she  was  resigned  at  once  to  their  superior  skill  and 
knowledge  in  matters  of  the  kind,  and  was  very  scon 
restored. 


THE  ROYAL  HUNT, 


99 


The  acknowledgments  and  congratulations  wliicli  now 
descended  npon  the  young  soldier  fiom  all  qnarters  ^Yere 
numberless,  and  were  received  with  his  characteristic 
modesty. 

The  King  himself  w^armly  grasped  his  hand  and  pre- 
sented his  Jormal  acknowledgments. 

The  Prime  Minister  w^as  in  an  ecstacy  of  delight  at 
the  bravery  and  good  fortune  of  his  intrepid  son;  and 
Marie — slie  did  all  she  could,  poor  little  girl! — she  slied 
tears  as  freely  as  a  watering  pot  does  water ! 

All  idea  of  pursuing  the  original  design  of  a  hunt  at 
St.  Germain  was  now  abandoned,  and  it  was  resolved 
that  a  portion  of  the  party  should  accompany  the 
Countess  to  the  Abbey  of  Maubuisson,  near  the  village 
of  Pontoise,  wdiich  w^as  but  a  few  miles  distant,  wdiile 
those  wdio  chose  the  sport  should  join  in  a  hawd^ing 
party  along  the  banks  of  the  Seine — it  being  understood 
that  the  entire  cortege  should  assemble  at  the  ringing  of 
the  Abbey  bell,  at  that  place  for  dinner:  after  which, 
such  as  official  duties  called  back  to  Paris  should  return 
— the  residue  j^assing  the  night  at  Pontoise. 

As  for  Blanche  of  Artois,  wdio  had  now  entirely  re- 
covered, she  insisted  upon  mounting  the  horse  of  one  of 
her  women,  and  also  insisted  that  Charles  should  i-eturn 
to  the  deserted  Madame  d'Aumale,  and  her  owm  gallant 
preserver  should  be  restored  to  her.    "And  it  was  so." 


100 


THE  ABBEY  OF  MAUBUISSON. 


CHAPTER  YII. 

THE  ABBEY  OF  MAUBUISSON. 

THE  Abbey  of  Manbuisson,  situated  near  the  vil- 
lage of  Pontoise,  some  two  or  three  leagues  from 
Pai'is,  was  founded  by  St.  Louis  in  the  year  of  grace  1270, 
a  few  months  only  before  his  decease.  This  was  one 
among  the  numerous  religious  houses  established  and 
endowed  by  this  "pious"  monarch,  both  at  the  capital 
and  in  the  provinces.  Of  the  others  may  be  named  tlie 
Abbeys  of  Eoyaumont,  Longchamp,  and  Lis,  and  the 
monasteries  of  the  Jacobins  and  the  Cordeliers  at  Paris, 
and  of  the  Mathurins  at  Fontainebleau.  St.  Louis  also 
furnished  the  Carmelites,  Cai'thnsiaiis,  Celestins  and 
Augustins  with  houses  and  churches,  and  in  the  prov- 
inces established  several  convents  of  nuns  called  Begui- 
res,  from  their  founder,  Lambert  le  Begue,  or,  from  the 
Beguine  veil  whicli  formed  part  of  their  habit:  and 
even  the  Abbey  of  Maubuisson  became,  at  a  later  period, 
one  of  their  retreats,  though  originally  a  convent  of 
Cistercians.  He  also  furnished  Father  Robert  Sorbonne 
with  an  edifice  for  the  university  bearing  his  name, 
since  so  noted.  Last,  though  by  no  means  the  least,  of 
the  priest-monarch's  pious  performances,  the  holy  St. 
Louis  introduced  a  branch  of  the  Inquisition  into  France, 


THE  ABBEY  OF  MAUBUISSOX. 


101 


by  and  with  tlie  advice  and  consent  of  "bis  equally  pious 
consort,  Blanche  of  Castile!  * 

Some  days  had  elapsed  since  the  occurrence  of  tbe 
events  last  recited.  The  hunting  i)arty  bad  returned  to 
Paris,  with  the  exception  of  the  Countess  Blancbe  and 
her  ladies,  Marie  Morfbntaine  and  ber  lover,  and  Edmond 
de  Goth,  the  brother  of  the  Pope.  The  Queen  of  Na- 
varre and  her  handsome  Equerrj^  also  remained.  Tbe 
ostensible  cause  of  Blancbe  of  Artois'  retirement  from 
Court  Avas  the  observance  of  devotional  duties,  and  tbat 
of  tbe  Queen  was  to  keep  her  company,  while  the  gen- 
tlemen remained  because  the  ladies  did.  But  tbe  real 
causes  of  tbis  seclusion  were  very  different. 

In  the  apartments  appropriated  to  tbe  use  of  tbe  Coun- 
tess of  Marche,  Adrian  de  Marigni  was  a  fi'equent  and 
ever  welcome  visitor.  It  is  said  that  we  are  far  more 
inclined  to  love  an  object  we  have  protected,  than  one  to 
which  we  have  been  indebted  for  protection.  If  tbis 
apborism  be  true,  it  will  go  far  to  explain  the  novel  and 
undefined  emotions  which  had  possessed  the  heart  of  the 
young  de  Marigni  since  his  late  preservation  of  Blanche 
of  Artois.  His  thoughts  by  dcij  were  of  ber,  and  so,  too, 
were  his  dreams  at  night.  How  often!  ob,  how  often! 
did  the  .young  soldier,  in  the  silent  night-watches,  aAvake 
fi'om  tbe  visions  of  his  lonely  pillow,  and  almost  fancy 

*  In  1134.  the  Council  at  Verona  gave  bis-liops  power  to  inquire  into  heresies 
and  punish  the  suspected.  In  1198,  Pope  Innocent  Tliird  sent  two  Cistercian 
monks  into  soutliern  France,  to  convert,  or  to  l^ill  certain  Manicliean  lieretics. 
Thus  originated  the  institution,  and  such  legates  were  snbst'quently  called 
Inquisitors.  In  Spain,  Italy  and  Portugal  tliis  ti'ibunal  flf)urislie(l  tVoni  tiie 
first,  but  was  never  established  in  France  until  the  latter  partof  tlie  tliL-teenth 
century,  by  Louis  the  isiuth,  as  stated. 


102 


THE  ABBEY  OF  MAUBUISSON. 


tliat  Le  clasped  once  more  tlie  phantom  of  tliat  exq-aisite 
form  to  his  breast,  and  gazed  once  more  into  the  dark 
and  mournful  beauty  of  those  grateful  eyes!  Awake  or 
asleep,  those  glorious  eyes  forever  haunted  him  ;  and 
before  him  like  a  spirit  wherever  he  might  be — whetlier 
in  his  sohtary  walks  ou  the  river  bank,  or  in  the  depths 
of  the  forest — by  night  or  by  day — glided  ever  that 
beautiful  form — gleamed  ever  that  eloquent  eye.  He 
had  been  always  sad,  but  now  he  was  more  sad  than 
ever;  he  had  been  always  thoughtful,  but  a  subject  of 
reflection  had  now  arisen  in  his  mind,  and  a  train  of 
feelings  and  sensations  had  now  awakened  in  his  breast, 
of  which  he  liad  never  conceived  before. 

To  Marie  Morfontaine  he  liad  always  been  a  strange 
> being,  but  now  he  seemed  stranger  than  ever.  She  had 
never  been  able  to  fathom  or  to  comprehend  very  well 
either  his  feelings,  or  his  thoughts;  and  now  they  were 
utterly  beyond  her  comprehension.  At  first  she  used  to 
accompany  him  in  his  long  and  solitary  walks,  but  she 
got  tired  of  his  everlasting  silence,  and  she  fancied  he 
had  got  tired  of  her  everlasting  prattle, — though  he  had 
never  told  her  so  by  word,  or  by  look,  or  by  sign;  and 
so  it  came  about  that  the  melancholy  Adrian  walked  by 
himself,  and  the  gay  iMarie  whiled  away  her  leisure 
moments  with  the  gallant  Edmond  de  Goth,  who  was  at 
all  times  and  in  all  places,  and  under  every  variety  of  cir- 
cumstance, her  most  devoted,  humble  servant,  and  who 
could  talk  forever  and  laugh  as  long  as  he  could  talk; 
and  in  both  laughing  and  talking  could  fairly  compete 
with  herself. 


THE  ABBEY  OF  MAUBUISSOX. 


103 


But  x\driairs  walks  were  not  all  of  them  lonelv. 
More  than  , once  had  the  fair  Countess  desired,  to  his 
undisguised  jov,  to  be  his  companion,  and  more  than 
once  had  this  desire  been  gratified. 

It  Avas  during  these  long  and  summer  evening  rambles 
tlirough  the  deep  woods  of  Manbnisson  that  Adrian 
detailed  to  Blanche,  at  her  earnest  petition,  all  the  inci- 
dents of  his  brief  yet  most  eventful  career.  iBe  told 
her  of  his  battles  and  sieges,  his  encampments  and 
marclies,  and  of  the  novel  scenes  he  had  Avitnessed,  and 
the  strange  persons  witli  whom  lie  had  met  in  his  long 
campaigns  on  a  foreign  soil.  To  these  recitals  Blanche 
Avould  listen  for  hours  in  silence,  her  dark  ej'es  fixed 
earnestly  on  his  eloquent  face;  and  Vvdien  his  voice 
ceased,  she  would  sigh,  and  would  feel  that  gladly  could 
she  listen  thus  forever. 

At  length,  one  evening,  when  he  had  been  reciting  his 
adventures  as  usual,  and  they  h[id  turned  their  steps 
homeward  to  the  Abbey,  as  the  dews  Avere  beginning  to 
fail,  she  remarked : 

But  3'ou  never  tell  me,  Count,  of  any  of  your  love 
matters." 

The  young  man  smiled  and  slightly  colored,  but 
remained  silent. 

"Have  you  had  no  affairs  of  tlie  heart  among  all  the 
adventures  of  your  exciting  career?  "  she  continued. 

"iXone,  madame,"  Avas  the  quiet  ansAver. 

"Perhaps  you  Avere  protected  by  a  prior  preference?  " 
rejoined  the  Countess. 

"I  have  never  loved  but  one/'  said  De  iMarigni. 


104 


THE  ABBEY  OF  MAUBUISSOIT. 


Blanche  of  Artois  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then 
burriedl}^  added  : 
"And  that  one?" 
"Is  Marie  Morfontaine." 

"  You  were  children  together,  were  you  not  ?  "  asked 
the  Countess,  with  difficulty,  after  a  pause." 
"  We  were,  madame." 
"And  you  have  loved  from  childhood?" 
"  We  have." 

"  We  ?  Then  yoa  infer  that  Marie  loves  you  as  well 
as  you  love  her?  " 

"I  know  Marie  loves  me,  madame." 

Again  the  Countess  was  silent,  and  for  some  time 
they  both  walked  on  wit^liout  exchanging  a  word. 

"  Have  3^ou  ever  asked  Marie  to  become  your  wife  ?  " 
asked  Blanche. 

"No,  madame,"  replied  the  yoang  man  Avith  a 
smile. 

"Ah  !  "  returned  tlie  Countess  quickly. 

"She  has  alwaj^s  understood,  I  suppose,  that  when  she 
became  a  wife,  she  would  be  mine.  /  have  always 
understood  so,  and  I  think  she  has ;  and  yet  I  have 
never  asked  her  to  be  mine." 

"When  is  your  union  to  take  place?"  asked  the 
Countess,  after  a  pause. 

"I  do  not  know,  madame.  It  may  be  years  hence. 
But  she  is  young,  and  so  am  I,  and  we  can  wait."  . 

"Do  you  know,  Count,"  asked  the  Countess  softly, 
"  that  you  mlglit  marry  any  lady  in  Paris?" 

"I  do  not,  madame,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 


THE  ABBEY  OF  MAUBUISSON. 


105 


"Yon  liave  no  ambitious  aspirations  then,  in  the 
regard  of  a  matrimonial  connection?" 

''None,  madame — none  Avliatever,"  replied  tlie  3'onng 
soldier  quickly,  Avith  a  sliglit  curl  of  tLe  lip.  "  My  field 
of  ambition  is  the  camp — not  the  loudoir.  I  ain  no 
carpet-knight.  Whatever  I  am — and  that's  not  much, 
to  be  sure — I  owe  to  no  one  but  mj'self.  I  Avish  it 
always  thus." 

For  some  moments  the  Countess  walked  on  in  silence. 
At  length  she  continued  : 

"  Marie  would  be  yours  noiL\  if  you  wished  it,  would 
she  not  ? " 

"  I  suppose,  madame,  she  would.  But  my  parents, 
especially  my  mother,  are  opposed  to  m\^  marriage  for 
some  years  yet.  They  say  I  am  too  young  to  marrj^," 
added  the  young  man  with  a  smile.  "Do  you  agree  with 
them.  Countess?  " 

"  There  must  be  some  reason  besides  that!  "  said  the 
Countess,  laughing.  Then,  thoughtfully,  she  added  : 
"May  it  not  be  that  they  are  opposed  rather  to  the  bride 
than  the  bridal?" 

Adrian  started,  and,  in  a  lower  tone,  replied  : 

"  Possibly  it  is  so,  madame." 

"  A  father  is  often  more  aspiring  for  his  son  than  the 
son  is  for  himself." 

"  But  it  is  my  mother,  madame." 

"  A  mother  always  loses  a  child  when  her  son  becomes 
a  husband,"  inteiTupted  the  Countess.  "He  is  no  more 
all  liers^  and  he  is  all  another's.  But  suppose,  Count, 
that  your  parents  seriously  opposed  3' our  union  with 
Marie  Morfontaine — what  then?" 


106 


THE  ABBEY  OF  MAUBCJISSON. 


"  Tlien,  madatne,  that  union  woald  never  take  place," 
was  the  decided  answer. 

"  You  would  obey  your  parents  at  all  liazavds  ?  " 

"  Most  assuredly,  luadame.    They  gave  me  life." 

"It  seems  then,  on  tlie  whole,"  said  the  Countess,  "an 
exceedingly  uncertain  thing  when  you  will  become 
Marie's  husband,  if  you  ever  do — is  it  not  so?  " 

"  Years  will  pass  first — but  we  shall  marry  in  the  end," 
confidently  replied  the  young  man. 

"  Even  if  your  parents  forbid  ?  " 

Adrian  was  silent. 

"  But  do  you  not  wrong  Marie,"  persisted  the  Countess, 
"in  thus  retaining  her  troth,  under  an  uncei'tainty  so 
great?  Do  you,  indeed,  manifest  true  love  for  her — a 
disinterested  desire  for  her  happiness,  by  holding  her  to 
a  pledge  like  this?  Adrian,  most  women  are  wives  at 
Marie's  age.  I  am  myself  but  little  her  senior.  Is  it 
altogether  fair  to  keep  her  for  years  in  her  present 
dependent  condition  as  a  ward  of  the  crown,  when  a 
change  might  prove  so  much  more  preferable;  and  that 
dependence  kept  up  too  on  such  an  uncertainty  ?  For 
years  hence,  your  parents  may  not  consent  any  more  than 
they  now  do.  Besides,  you  are  constantly  in  the  field, 
and  your  life — " 

The  Countess  shuddered,  and  stopped,  and  became 
pale. 

"  Madame,  madame,  I  will  make  any  sacrifice  for 
Marie's  happiness!"  said  Adrian  with  energy. 

Blanche  of  Artois  sadly  smiled.  She  perceived  she 
had  touched  the  right  chord. 


THE  ABBEY  OF  MAUBUISSOX. 


107 


"  Are  YOU  really  anxious  for  this  marriage  to  take 
place? she  resumed  in  Ioy'  tones,  after  a  pause. 

The  YOung  man  Y'as  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then 
replied: 

''I  am  less  anxious,  I  believe,  than  I  once  was, 
madame  ?  " 

"And  why?'' 
I  do  not  knoY',  madame." 

"  Do  you  think  ^larie  understands  you  Y'ell — T  mean 
do  3^ou  think  she  can  comprehend  and  sympathize  with 
all  your  thoughts  and  emotions  ? 

"Xo,  madame:  oh,  nol  "  replied  De  Marigni,  sadly, 
shakino-  his  head. 

''And  yet  you  love  her?  " 

"  Does  she  not  love  me  ?  " 

"•Well,  Count,  I  suppose  she  does,''  replied  the  Coun- 
t-ess:  "  at  least  you  think  so,  and  slie  thinks  so,  too,  no 
doubt.  She  loves  you  as  veil  as  she  can,  perhaps — as 
veil  as  one  person  can  love  another  whom  she  cannot 
comprehend,  and  with  whose  peculiar  feelings  she  can- 
not sympathize." 

''But that  is  not  her  fault,  madame,"  warmly  rejoined 
Adrian.  "  ITer  nature  is  different  from  mine.  It  is 
rather  my  fault,  if  the  fault  of  an}'  one.  She  is  always 
gay — I  am  always  sad.  She  is  always  laughing  and 
chatting — I  laugh  but  little  and  say  less.  ISTothing 
troubles  her — everything  troubles  me.  She — happy  and 
innocent  girl — never  thinks,  I  do  verily  believe:  vdiile 
I — I  am  forever  in  a  broAvn  study,  as  she  herself  says  I  " 

"  And,  knoYung  this,  do  you  believe  her  fitted  to  be 
7 


loa 


THE  ABBEY  OF  MAUBUISSON. 


your  life-long  companion,  or  you  to  be  liers  ?  "  asked  tlie 
Countess  gently. 

De  Marigni  made  no  reply. 

"It  may  not  be — it  assuredly  is  not,  as  you  so  warmly 
assert— her  fault  that  you  are  not  more  alike  ;  but,  if 
she  is  to  be  your  wife,  naay  it  not  prove  your  misfortune^ 
as  well  as  her  own?  " 

De  Marigni  was  still  silent. 

"Suppose,  Count,"  continued  the  lady,  "suppose  that 
your  feelings  for  Marie  were  to  change — suppose  you 
were  to  love  her  no  longer—" 

"  That  cannot  be,  madam e  !  "  interrupted  Adrian. 

"  But  suppose,"  resumed  the  Countess,  with  sonie  irri- 
tation of  feeling  and  tone,  and  with  heightened  color — 
"  suppose  you  were  to  love  another." 

"  Well,  madame?  "  said  Adrian  softly, 
r  "  Would  you  then  make  Marie  Morfontaine  your 
wife?" 

"  Madame,  I  would — I  would  if — " 

The  young  man  paused. 

"If  what?" 

"Jf  she  wished  it." 

"  And  would  you  thus  consult  her  happiness — to  say 
nothing  of  your  own?  Ah,  Adrian,"  continued  the 
Countess,  pressing  her  snowy  fingers  upon  the  arm  on 
which  she  leaned,  "  the  human  heart  cannot  love  two 
objects  supremely  at  once.  Think  jow  that  Marie 
could  be  happy  as  your  wife,  loving  you,  and  knowing 
— for  sucb  knowledge  quickly  comes  to  woman — tliat 
you  loved  not  her?    And  do  you  think  you  could  be 


THE  ABBEY  OF  MAUBUISSON". 


109 


happy  as  the  husband  of  one  woman  and  the  lover 
of  another?  " 

The  low,  sweet  tones  of  Blanche  of  Artois  trembled — 
her  dark  eyes  were  suffused  with  emotion — her  white 
hand  rested  more  heavily  on  Adrian's  arm — her  form 
almost  leaned  upon  his  for  support. 

De  Marigni,  more  agitated  than  even  his  companion, 
dared  not  trust  his  voice  in  reply ;  but  he  laid  his  hand, 
scarcely  less  snowy  than  that  which  rested  on  his  arm, 
gently  beside  it.  Tlie  touch,  so  light  as  to  be  hardly 
perceptible,  thrilled  to  his  very  soul;  and  it  thrilled  to 
hers. 

"  Adrian,"  said  Blanche  of  Artois,  in  tones  of  low  and 
melancholy  sweetness,  after  a  pause  of  considerable 
duration,  "whatever  you  do  in  this  matter,  oh,  be  not 
hasty  !  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  marry  and  not  to  love  ! 
It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  marry  and  to  outlive  love — either 
your  own  love  or  another's  1  But  more  terrible  than  all 
is  it — terrible  to  your  companion,  and  yet  more  terrible 
to  yourself — to  wed  for  life  and  fondly  to  love — yet  not 
to  love  the  being  to  whom  you  are  wed  1 " 

During  this  conversation  the  pair  had  slowly  ap- 
proached the  Abbey,  and  were  now  in  the  shrubbery  of 
the  garden,  and  the  shades  of  evening  had  deepened 
almost  into  night. 

As  the  Countess  uttered,  as  if  with  an  effort,  the  last 
syllables  recited,  she  suddenly  stopped,  and  her  forehead 
sank  on  the  shoulder  of  her  companion.  At  the  same 
moment  a  cold  tear  dropped  upon  his  hand. 

"You  are  unhappy! — oh,  you  are  unhappy!"  he 


110 


THE  ABBEY  OF  MAUBUXSSON. 


exclaimed,  in  uncontrollable  agitation,  all  the  generous 
emotions  of  his  soul  being  at  once  roused,  at  the  same 
time  clasping  her  unresisting  form  to  his  heart.  "  Oh, 
be  my  sister,  Blanche! — let  me  be  your  brother  I — teil 
me  all — tell  me — " 

Blanclie  of  Artois  gently  disengaged  herself  from  the 
arms  of  Adrian,  and,  pressing  his  hand  to  her  lips,  glided 
into  the  Abbey  and  at  once  to  her  chamber. 


THE  LETTER. 


Ill 


CnAPTEE  YIII. 

THE  LETTEE, 

SEYEEAL  days  passed.  Blanclie  of  Artois  confined 
herself  to  her  own  a2:)artments,  on  plea  of  indis- 
position ;  and  a  sentiment  of  undefined  delicacy  pre- 
vented Adrian  from  seeking  an  interview. 

Long  and  deeply,  during  his  lonely  walks,  did  he 
ponder  every  tone,  look  and  syllable  of  that  strange 
conversation.  There  were  some  things, — many  things, 
which  to  him  were  quite  incomprehensible  ; — and  there 
were  some  that,  unfortunately  for  poor  Marie,  he  could 
comprehend  but  too  well.  The  conckiding  incident  of 
the  interview  seemed  to  him  like  a  dream, — a  confused 
and  indistinct  vision,  on  the  remembrance  of  which  he 
dared  hardly  linger.  It  was  true,  many  wild  dreams 
had  visited  him  of  late;  but  this  he  felt  was  no  dream. 
He  longed  once  more  to  meet  Blanche.  His  heart  bled 
for  her.  He  would  have  risked  his  life  to  make  her 
happy,  as  he  had  already  risked  it  to  secure  her  safety. 
Yet,  notwithstanding,  such  was  the  inconsistency  and 
perplexity  of  his  feelings  that  sooner  than  have  entered 
her  chamber  he  would  have  charged  a  whole  city  of 
Flemings,  with  Peter  le  Roi,  the  weaver,  and  John 
Breyel,  the  butcher  of  Bruges,  at  their  head ! 

As  for  Marie,  she  perceived  nothing  unusual  in  her 
lover.    He  was  always  so  silent  and  so  sad  that  she  had 


l^HE  LETTER. 


ceased  to  wonder  at  the  cause,  if  lie  happened  to  be  a 
little  more  so,  or  a  little  less  so,  on  any  one  day  than  on 
the  day  before.  True,  she  would,  once  in  a  while,  glide 
up  to  him,  as  he  sat  in  reverie,  at  an  open  window,  and 
gazed  sadly  on  the  distant  forests,  or  the  blue  hill-tops,  or 
the  summer  clouds,  or  the  rushing  river,  and,  dropping  on 
her  knees  at  his  side,  throw  her  white  arms  around  his 
neck,  saying:    "Adrian,  what  ails  you?    Are  you  ill?  " 

And  then  her  lover  would  part  the  luxuriant  ringlets 
upon  her  white  forehead,  and  press  to  it  his  lips,  tell 
her  he  was  never  better  in  his  life;  and  she — happy  and 
unthinking  child !  would  trip  away  to  amuse  herself 
with  Edmond  de  Goth  and  laugh  Q>t  his  courtly  speeches. 

One  day,  the  Prime  Minister  came  out  from  the 
capital,  and,  having  held  a  long  and  secret  conference 
with  his  son,  departed.  But,  from  the  subsequent 
manner  of  Adrian,  Marie  could  gather  nothing  of  the 
purport  of  his  visit : — to  be  snre  she  did  not  try  very 
hard, — and  her  lover  with  a  smile  declined  satisfying 
her  childlike  curiosity.  He  left  the  Abbey  shortly 
after,  however,  and  did  not  return  until  all  its  inmates 
had  retired  for  the  night.  Eepairing  to  his  apartment, 
he  was  about  throwing  himself  on  his  couch,  when  a 
piece  of  pink  vellum,  delicately  folded,  and  perfumed, 
and  secured  with  a  tress  of  bright  black  hair,  instead  of 
the  floss  commonly  used  for  that  purpose,  arrested  his 
attention.  Finding  the  note  bore  his  own  address,  he 
quickly  yet  carefully  cut  the  tress  of  liair  with  his  keen 
dagger,  and,  unfolding  the  vellum,  read  the  following 
lines  traced  in  letters  of  exquisite  form : 


THE  LETTER, 


113 


TO  ADPJAX. 

Tliou  dost  not  love  me  I    As  ilie  ^arm  wind  sigliing 
Along  tlie  leaves  of  summer's  quiet  grove. 

An  instant  swelling  lingering. — then  dying — . 

Thus  in  tl:y  bosom  wakes  the  breath  of  love. 

Thou  dost  not  love  me  I    I  have  watched  the  beaming 
Of  that  calm  eje. — the  quiet  of  thy  brow, 

And  sadly  turned  me  from  that  placid  seeming 
Only  to  sigh,^ — -  He  loves  me  not !  '* — as  now. 

Thou  dost  not  love  me  I    Well. — I'm  not  imploring 
A  single  throb,  or  thought,  of  thy  young  heart: 

iSTay.  I  would  not  my  own  heart's  deep  adoring 
Should  to  thy  breast  one  sorrowing  sigh  impart. 

But  I  shall  love  thee!    Vainly  comes  all  warning 
Unto  a  breast  where  passion  hath  her  throne. 

Upon  whose  heart. — an  altar. — night  and  morning 
Eisetli  an  incense-cloud  to  love  alone. 

I  do  not  say  Adieu.' — 't  were  idly  spoken. — 

For  we  shall  meet. — shall  meet  as  we  have  met : 

Thine  eye  will  glance  as  coldly. — but  no  token 
Shall  tell  to  thee  that  I  can  e'er  forget  I 

'With  strange  and  conflicting  feelings,  again  and 
again  Adrian  de  ^farigni  read  these  impassioned  and 
despairing  verses.  Then  gazing  at  the  bright  tress  of 
dark  hair,  and  folding  it  within  the  velkim.  he  pressed 
the  treasure  repeatedly  and  fervently  to  his  hps.  and, 
placing  it  beneath  his  vest  upon  his  throbbing  heart,  he 
held  it  there  and  threw  himself  npon  his  couch.  He 
threw  himself  upon  his  couch,  but  it  was  not  to  sleep. 


114: 


THE  VISION. 


CIIAPTEE  IX. 
THE  visioisr. 

HOUE  after  hour  passed  away,  and  still  Adrian 
de  Marigni  slept  not.  The  oM  Abbey  clock 
tolled  regularly  the  hours  in  drowsy  numbers,  from  ten 
o'clock  till  two,  and  was  regularly  answered  by  tbe 
ponderous  bells  of  Paris. 

To  attempt  to  describe  the  young  soldier's  feelings  or 
thoughts,  during  these  silent  night-watches,  were  idle. 
He  could  not  have  described  them  himself 

Towards  morning  he  fell  from  mere  exhaustion  into 
a  troubled  slumber.  He  dreamed.  He  was  on  the 
wide,  wild  ocean.  The  winds  raved — tlie  billows  tossed 
around  him.  He  was  wrecked.  Destruction  was  in- 
evitable. Suddenly  the  black  clouds  parted.  A  beau- 
tiful face  looked  down  upon  him — a  whit-e  hand  was 
extended — he  was  saved!  That  hand!  that  face! — it 
was  Blanche  of  Arto's. 

The  scene  changed.  He  was  on  the  scaffold.  The 
headsman's  axe  gleamed  over  him.  For  tlie  last  time, 
he  opened  his  eyes  to  the  bright  world  of  nature.  A 
guardian  angel  was  beside  him.  It  was  Blanche  ot 
Artois ! 

He  stood  at  the  altar.  The  hand  of  his  little  play- 
mate, Marie  Morfontaine,  was  in  his.    The  priest,  in 


THE  VISION. 


115 


snowy  stole  and  alb,  was  before  them.  The  irrevocable 
vow  was  about  to  be  spoken.  Suddenly  between  kim- 
self  and  tlie  altar  rose  a  sweet,  pale  face.  It  was  the 
face  of  Blanche  of  Artois  ! 

Once  more  the  scene  changed.  He  was  on  the  battle- 
field. Plumes  tossed,  banners  waved,  steel  clashed, 
blood  gushed — death  in  all  its  most  feaiful  foi-ms  was 
around  him;  yet,  througli  all,  calm,  cold,  senseless — ^like 
a  demon  of  ruin  he  swept.  Before  his  flaming  falchion 
full  many  a  mailed  form,  full  many  a  plumed  crest,  went 
down.  At  length,  weary  with  the  slaughter,  as  the  fight 
closed,  his  battle-axe  descended  with  crushing  might  on 
a  form  that  had  hannted  him  throughout  all  the  conflict. 
That  form  fell.  For  an  instant  he  glanced  on  his  victim. 
The  vizor  of  the  helmet  fell  back.  Amid  the  blood- 
mists  of  battle  gleamed  up  a  sad  and  beautiful  face.  Oh, 
God  1  it  was  Blanche  of  Artois  ! 

Again  the  scene  changed.  Horror! — he  was  at  the 
stake!  An  awful  deatli  awaited  him.  The  red  flames 
rose  and  I'oared,  and  the  black  smoke  swept  and  eddied 
in  stifling  clouds  around  him!  They  parted — those 
clouds  of  flame  and  smoke:  before  him  rose  the  face  of 
an  angel,  with  the  eyes  of  a  fiend!  That  face ! — those 
eyes! — it  was  Blanche  of  Artois! 

Horror-struck,  the  slumberer  awoke. 

Tlie  early  summer  sun  was  pouring  its  first  red  rays 
into  the  chamber.  From  the  court-yard  of  the  Abbey 
rose  the  rattle  of  iron  hoofs  upon  the  pavement,  and  the 
cries  of  attendants.  By  his  couch  stood  a  servant  to  say 
that  in  one  hour  the  whole  party  would  start  for  Paris. 


116 


THE  VISION. 


■  Bewildered  and  perplexed,  Adrian  de  Marignl  de- 
scended to  tlie  court.  During  Lis  absence,  on  the  even- 
ing previous,  he  learned  tbat  an  invitation,  or  rather  an 
order,  had  arrived  from  the  Louvre,  for  all  of  its  accus- 
tomed inmates  to  be  present  at  the  reception  of  the 
legates  of  the  Sovereign  Pontiff*  elect,  the  Archbishop  of 
Bordeaux,  who  brought  tO'  the  King  of  France,  with  all 
his  clergy,  his  chivalry  and  his  Court,  a  bidding  to  be 
present  at  the  city  of  Lyons  on  the  fourteenth  day  of 
November  next  ensuing,  at  the  Papal  consecration. 

Adrian  found  the  whole  party  already  in  motion,  and, 
after  a  hasty  repast,  it  was  mounted  and  on  the  route  to 
the  capital. 

Never  had  Blanche  of  Artois  seemed  to  De  Marigni 
so  beautiful,  and  never  had  he  beheld  her  so  gay  and  so 
cheerful  as  on  that  morning.  Her  brief  illness  gone,  she 
seemed  another  being.  Her  face  was  all  smiles.  H&r 
dark  eyes  were  filled  with  joy.  Wit  sparlded,  jest 
leaped,  repartee  and  rejoinder  flowed  from  her  lips.  Was 
it  possible  this  was  the  woman  he  last  beheld  ? 

"  Do  you  design  escorting  me  to  Paris,  young  gentle- 
man?" she  gayly  cried  to  Dc  Marigni,  as  he  stood 
bewildered  at  the  scene.  If  jo\i  do,  ride  up — ride  np! 
Why,  one  would  suppose  you  had  seen  a  spectre  last 
night,  instead  of  sleeping  as  soundly  as  a  soldier  always 
sleeps  until  sunrise  this  morning,  you  look  so  pale  and 
haggard!    Come  on,  come  on,  or  we  shall  be  left  1" 

And  away  she  galloped,  followed  by  the  Count. 

As  the  party  passed  the  scene  of  the  late  peril  of  the 


THE  VISION, 


117 


Countess,  many  congratnlations  were  addressed  her 
upon  the  liappj  result,  and  many  compliments  to  De 
Marigni. 

-  "  I  suppose  I  am  imder  everlasting  obligations  to  you, 
Sir  Count,  for  saving  my  life — am  I  not?  "  remarked 
J31anclie  of  Artois  to  her  companion. 

"By  no  means,  madame,"  was  tlie  calm  answer.  "I 
should  have  done  the  little  I  did  for  any  woman." 

Blanche  bit  her  lip,  and  urged  on  her  steed  without 
reply. 

'  Crossing  the  Seine  at  the  Ferry  of  ISTeuiJly,  the  troop 
glowly  asce-nded  the  opposite  hill. 

"  I  am  told,"  carelessly  remarked  the  Countess  to  De 
Marigni,  as  he  rode  beside  her,  "that  you  received  a 
visit  from  the  Minister  last  evening." 

"  I  did,  madame,"  was  the  respectful  reply. 

"  And  the  purport — is  it  a  secret?  "  continued  Blanche, 
f  "  To  you,  madame,  it  is  not." 
,  "Well?" 

"  My  father  bids  me  return  to  camp." 
'  "  And  you  obey,  of  cour&e?" 

"Of  course,  madame."  ' 

"  He  wishes  to  remove  you  from  the  corrupting  in- 
fluence of  the  Louvre,  I  suppose!"  rejoined  the  Coun- 
tess, with  a  lauo'h. 

.  "  I  think  rather  he  wishes  to  remove  me  from  tlie  in- 
fluence of  Marie  Morfontaine,"  replied  De  Marigni,  sadly. 

"  How  ?  "  exclaimed  the  Couutess,  with  weli-feigned 
astonishment. 


118 


THE  VISION. 


"  111  fact,  inadame,  lie  takes  tlie  same  view  of  my  con- 
nection with  Marie  that  yourself  condescended  to  do." 

The  Countess  bowed,  and  sliglitly  colored. 

"He  believes  that  years  must  elapse  before  Marie  can 
become  my  wife  ;  and,  inasmuch  as  Edmond  de  Goth 
has  asked  her  hand  of  the  Chancellor,  he  thinks  I  ought 
to  resign  it." 

"  Edmond  de  Goth  ?  "  returned  tlie  Countess,  thought- 
fully ;  "that  is  a  proud  alliance  for  a  maid  of  honor  of 
the  Queen  of  Navarre." 

"But  you  forget,  madame,  that  Marie  is  high-born  and 
beautiful,  and  the  heiress  of  immense  estates,"  returned 
the  Count  with  warmth. 

"  Yes,  yes — but  you^  Count,  forget  that  Edmond  de 
Goth  is  the  brother  of  the  Pope.  And  so  you  return  to 
Flanders?"  added  the  Countess. 

"  Yes,  madame,  yes,"  was  the  sad  reply. 

"  You  once  told- me — I  forgot  when— but  you  told  me 
once,  I  think,  that  the  sphere  of  your  ambition  was  the 
tented  field,  and  that  alone — did  you  not?" 

"I  did,  madame,"  said  De*  Marigni.  "It  has  ever 
been  so,  and  hereafter  will  be  so  more  than  ever." 

"How  then  does  it  happen  that  you  have  never  united 
yourself  with  the  noble  Order  oF  the  Temple,  or  that  of 
the  Hospitalers?  "  asked  the  Countess. 

"  There  have  been  several  reasons,"  rejoined  De  Ma- 
rigni. "  First,  my  contemplated  union  with  Marie — for 
a  Templar  is  a  priest.  Second,  the  terrible  secrets  and 
infamous  vices  which  are  attributed  to  that  powerful 
order ;  and  third,  even  had  I  wished   to  become  a 


THE  VISION*. 


119 


Kniglit-Companion  of  eitlier  order,  it  Tvoiild  have  "been 
no  easy  matter  for  me  to  accomplisli  my  wisli.  The 
Templars  are  mostly  in  C3'pras,  or  in  their  priories.  We 
have  none  in  the  camp  of  Charles  of  Yalois." 

"There  are  a  few  in  Paris,  are  there  not?"  asked 
Blanche, 

"A  fevr  old  knights — such  as  William  of  Mont- 
morency, John  of  Beanfremont,  Pierre  of  Yillars,  Falk 
of  Trecy,  Gillon  of  Chevreuse,  and  others,  who  are  dis- 
abled for  the  field  by  reason  of  age  and  wounds — abide 
at  the  Palace  of  the  Temple." 

"Hugh  de  Peralde  is  the  Grand  Prior,  or  the  Visitor 
of  the  Priory  of  France  ?  "  asked  the  Countess. 

"  I  have  so  understood,  madame." 

"  It  is  a  noble  order!  "  exclaimed  the  Countess,  with 
enthusiasm,  after  a  pause.  "  Were  I  a  man  I  would  be 
a  Templar  !    What  wonderful  beings  thej  are!  " 

"  But  their  vices — "  began  De  Mai'igni. 

"Are  the  vices  of  individuals,  not  of  a  fraternity," 
was  the  quick  answer.  _  "  Besides,  one  can  pardon  in  a 
member  of  that  glorious  brotherhood  what  would  be 
condemned  in  other  men.  How  strange  it  seems  to  me, 
Count,  that  yoic  are  not  a  Templar!" 

"My  connection  with  Marie  "  began  De  Marigni. 

"But  that  has  now  ceased!"  interrupted  Blanche. 

"The  terrible  secrets  and  vices  of  the  order,"  again 
began  the  Count. 

'•  But  the  order  itself  is  a  religious  order.  How  can 
one  like  3^ou  be  otherwise  than  a  Knight  of  the  Cross? 
I  am  told  you  are  a  model  of  piety  in  the  camp,  Count." 


120 


THE  VISION^. 


"  Madame,"  returned  the  young  man,  gravely,  "  I  am 
a  model  of  nothing.  My  mother  taught  me  never  to 
neglect  my  religious  duties,  even  in  camp,  as  the  best 
safeguard  against  vices." 

"And  you  have  obeyed  lier?" 

"I  have  tried  to  do  so,  madame." 

"Why  then  do  you  not  become  'A  Poor  Fellow- 
soldier  of  Christ  and  of  the  Temple  of  Solomon?  '  " 

"Because  " 

V  "Since  you  have  resigned  all  wish  to  sacrifice  the 
happiness  of  Marie  Morfontaine  to  your  selfishness?'.' 
added  the  Countess. 

"Then,  madame,  because — and  this  is  a  sufficient 
reason — I  have  no  influence  to  gain  me  admission  into 
that  august  order,"  Avas  the  reply. 

"  Ah  I "  returned  the  Countess—"  is  that  all ?  " 

The  cortege  had  now  reached  the  brow  of  the  heights 
of  Montmartre,  overlooking  Paris,  and,  galloping  down 
the  Kue  St.  Honore,  it  entei'ed  the  northern  gate  of  the 
Louvre. 


THE  MISSI^T:. 


121 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  MISSIVE. 

THE  fete  at  tlie  Louvre,  on  the  occasion  of  tlie 
reception  of  the  Papal  messengers,  on  the  night 
ot  September  16tli,  1305,  was  one  of. the  most  splendid 
that  ancient  pile — even  then  ancient — had  ever  beheld. 

And  of  all  this  gorgeous  scene,  the  idol,  the  orna- 
meijt,  the  boast,  the  queen,  was  Blanche  of  Artois. 

Her  very  nature  seemed  changed.  Iso  one  who 
had  attended  the  bridal  fete  of  her  sister  Jane,  but  a 
few  weeks  before,  could  have  recognized  in  the  splendid 
and  most  fascinating  Countess  of  March e,  glittering 
with  gems  and  radiant  with  smiles,  the  centre  of  all 
that  was  joyous  and  all  that  was  brilliant  in  that 
proud  hall — the  sad,  retiring,  melancholy,  deserted  woman 
who  had  then  been  hardly  seen. 

Tiie  universal  admiration  she  excited  communicated 
itself  even  to  her  unfaithful  husband,  Charles  le  Bel^ 
and  he  was  proud  that  the  star  of  that  brilliant  scene 
was  his  own  lovely  wife.  He  even  approached  her  with 
a  courtly  com})liment  on  his  lips  to  her  transcendant 
charms,  but  before  it  was  half-uttered  he  was  dismissed, 
with  a  significant  smile,  to  Madame  d'Aumale ! 

"Blanche  has  asserted  herself  at  last !"  said  the  gay. 
Queen  of  Navarre  to  her  devoted  Equerry.  "Her 
fright  the  other  day  seems  to  have  worked  a  miracle." 


122 


THE  MISSIVE. 


As  for  Adrian  de  Marigni,  he  was  indulged  witli 
scarce  a  smile  or  a  word  from  the  lovely  Countess ;  and, 
having  wandered  like  a  Carmelite  through  the  lighted 
saloons,  pale  and  silent,  and  sad,  for  a  few  hours,  he  at 
length  resigned  Marie  Morfontaine  to  her  avowed 
admirer,  though  not  yet  avowed  lover,  Edmond  de 
Goth,  and  retired  at  an  early  hour  to  his  chamber; 
although,  in  the  language  of  old  Froissart,  describing  a 
similar  fete,  "the  feasting  and  the  dancing  lasted  until 
sunrise." 

Several  days  ensued,  which  were  occupied  with  a 
succession  of  festivities,  at  all  of  which  Blanche  of 
Artois  was  present,  and  in  all  of  which  she  seemed 
fully  to  participate.  Occasionally  she  was  encountered 
by  De  Marigni,  and  occasionally  he  was  admitted  to 
her  apartments ;  but,  although  she  conversed  freely  and 
kindly  as  a  sister  might  commune  with  a  brother, 
relative  to  his  plans  of  life,  or  schemes  of  ambition, 
not  a  syllable  was  uttered  on  the  topics  of  their  late 
exciting  interview  or  of  his  union  with  Marie  Mor- 
fontaine, or  with  the  Templar  Knights. 

Meanwhile  the  order  for  his  return  to  camp  had  been 
suspended. 

One  morning,  about  a  week  after  his  return  to  the 
Louvre,  he  was  in  his  chamber,  when  Philip  de  Launai 
was  announced. 

"Are  we  alone,  Count?"  asked  De  Launai,  as  the 
door  was  closed. 

"  We  are,"  returned  De  Marigni,  with  some  surprise. 

"  Swear  to  me  that  what  now  ensues  shall  be  secret  1 " 


THE  MISSIVE. 


123 


"I  swear,*'   ^'^s  the  reply  of  Adrian  after  a  pause. 

The  TO ung  Templar  said  no  more,  but,  drawing  a  slip 
of  wliite  parcliment  from  liis  vest,  placed  it  silently  in 
ais  companion's  hands. 

Adrian  took  the  parchment  and  read  the  following 
message  traced  thereon  in  ancient  characters,  and  in 
tlie  Latin  tongue  : 

Adrian  de  Marigni.  Count  le  Portier.  is  elected  a  Fellow 
Companion  of  the  Holy  Order  of  the  Temple  of  Zion  in  the 
province  of  France.  In  regard  of  former  feats  of  arms  and 
a  pure  life,  the  novitiate  enjoined  Ijy  the  canons  is  dispensed 
with.  The  initiatory  ceremony  of  hi^  reception  will  commence 
ill  tlie  grand  chapel  of  the  Pahice  of  the  Temple,  at  the  hour 
of  nine,  on  the  niglit  of  the  twentieth  day  of  September,  in 
the  year  of  Grace,  1305.  and  of  the  Holy  Order,  one  hundred 
and  eighty-seven. 

Hugh  de  Peralde, 

Grand  Visitor  of  the  Te/niph, 

In  the  Priory  of  France. 

To  this  missive  was  attaclied  the  huge  seal  of  the 
order,  being  an  octagon  star,  charged  with  a  Latin  cross, 
entwined  by  a  serpent,  and  bearing  the  motto,  "'In  hoc 
Sly  no  vinces.''^ 

"  Your  answer,"  said  De  Launai  gravely,  when  Adrian 
had  perused  the  parchment. 

"  I  will  be  at  the  Temple  at  the  appointed  hour." 
was  the  firm  reidy. 

*  Tlie  device  of  the  seal  of  the  Temple  seems  to  have  heen  not  always  the 
same.  At  one  time  it  represeiired  two  knijihts  mounted  on  one  horse,  indica- 
tive of  the  poverty  of  its  founders.  Godfrey  of  St.  Omer  and  Hugh  de  I'^ayens 
having  Imt  one  war-horse  between  tliem  At  one  time,  it  bore  the  head  of  a 
man  crowned  wirh  thorns,  representing,  perhaps,  the  Saviour. 

8 


124 


THE  MISSIVE. 


"  Write  tlien  upon  the  reverse  of  this  parclimeiit  the 
words  '/  will  comej  and  subscribe  to  them  your  name 
and  title,"  continued  De  Launai. 

Adrian  did  as  he  was  directed,  and  the  Templar 
replaced  the  scroll  in  bis  bosom.  He  then  grasped 
Adrian  cordially  by  the  hand  and  clasped  him  to  his 
heart. 

"To-night,  at  nine,  will  commence  the  initiation," 
added  the  Templar.  "At  eight  I  will  be  here  to  guide 
you  to  the  Temple.  Be  firm,  be  bold! — constancy, 
courage ! ' 

I  And  without  more  words  De  Launai  left  the  chamber. 


THE  PALACE  OF  THE  TEilPLE. 


125 


CHAPTEE  XI. 


THE  PALACE  OF  THE  TEMPLE. 


,HEEE  are  some  structures  in  tlie  capital  of  France 


i  ^vliicli  are  interesting,  not  for  ^vliat  they  are,  but 
for  what  they  have  been: — not  for  the  embellishments 
of  art.  nor  the  decorations  of  luxury,  nor  the  splendors 
of  architecture,  nor  the  perfection  of  execution  or  design, 
nor  for  magnitude  of  extent,  nor  even  for  antiquity  of 
origin,  but  interesting,  even  to  f/2//^/'a7?/??/i^,  though  desti- 
tute of  all  these  attractions,  for  the  scenes  which  they 
have  witnessed  and  the  events  which  they  have  clironi- 
cied:  for  the  catastriDphes  they  have  beheld  and  the 
associations  they  awaken;  for  the  wild  and  thrilling 
emotions  they  excite  and  the  mournful  memories  they 
suggest. 

One  of  these  spots  is  the  Palace  of  the  Temple. 

Ascending  the  interior  boulevards  of  Paris  and  passing 
the  triumphal  arches  of  St.  Denis  and  St.  Martin,  the 
third  or  fourth  street  on  your  right  is  the  Eue  du 
Temple.  Descending  this  street,  ancient.  narroAV,  and 
tortuous,  and  overhung  by  lofty  and  time-stained  dwell- 
ings, you  shortly  reach  a  spacious  area,  in  which  statids 
a  low  structure  of  immense  extent,  stirrounded  bv  f  >iir 
galleries  and  composed  entirely  of  shops  and  stalls, 
about  two  thousand  in  number,  in  which  are  off£r€d  fjr 
sale  eld  coats  and  old  hats,  old  shoes  and  old  shirts, 


126 


THE  PALACE  OF  THE  TEMPLE. 


old  boots,  books,  bonnets,  and  breeclies,  old  tools,  old 
iron,  old  furniture — indeed,  everything  old  tliat  can  be 
imagined  is  here  to  be  found  on  sale.  TLo  salesmen 
tliemselves  are  old,  very  old — old  men  and  old  women, 
principally  Isi'aelites,  while  the  place  itself  is  called 
Le  Marclie  du  Bieux  Linge,  or  "  The  Market  of  Old 
Linen,"  indicative  of  one  at  least  of  the  objects  of  its 
destination.  This  market  is  quite  a  modern  concern, 
having  been  institnted  les-s  than  half  a  century  since, 
and  attached  to  it  and  bounding  it  upon  the  east  is  a 
spacious  structure  erected  for  the  accommodation  of 
debtors  when  this  place  was  their  sanctuary.  On  the 
south  of  this  spacious  area  stands  an  ancient  structure 
of  stone,  and  this  single  structure,  old  and  time-stained, 
is  all  that  now  survives  of  that  massive  and  magnifi- 
cent edifice  once  known  as  the  Palace  of  the  Grand 
Prior  of  tlie  Order  of  the  Templar  Knights  in  France. 

As  early  as  the  latter  part  of  tlie  twelfth  century,  the 
Templars  bad  fixed  on  this  spot,  tlien  embracing  several 
acres  and  lying  without  the  walls  of  Paris,  for  their 
palace,  and  here,  in  1222,  was  completed  that  vast  struc- 
ture, of  which,  after  a  lapse  of  more  than  six  centuries, 
a  remnant  is  yet  beheld.* 

Two  centuries  passed  away.  The  Order  of  the  Temple 
was  abolished,  but  tlie  huge  central  tower  still  contained 
the  archives  of  the  brotherhood,  as  well  as  those  of  the 

*  The  first  eliapter  of  the  Templavi  in  tlie  city  of  Paris,  whicli  snhseqiiently 
became  the  chief  seat  of  the  order  in  Europe,  seems  to  liave  bee'i  convened  iii 
tlie  year  1147,  in  a  structure  h)np:  afterwards  known  as  the  "Old  Temple," 
stan'dinji  near  the  Place  St.  Gervais,  and  to  have  numbered  one  hundred  and 
tnirty  Knights.  In  the  year  1182,  the  order  had  located  itself,  as  described,  on 
a  spot  long  Uuowu  as    La  ViUe  Neuve  du  TemjAe.'' 


THE  PALACE  OF  THE  TEMPLE. 


127 


Kniglits  of  Malta,  and  was  still  the  cliief  seat  of  the 
blended  fraternity  in  Europe.  It  was,  also,  the  treasure 
house  of  the  monarclis  of  France  for  four  hundred  years. 
Next,  it  became  a  prison— this  black  old  tower — and  its 
damp  walls  absorbed  the  sighs  and  tears  of  the  unhappy 
Louis  and  bis  devoted  queen  for  months  ere  tliey  were 
led  to  the  scaftbld.  Here,  too,  Avere  imprisoned,  at  dif- 
ferent periods,  among  its  celebrated  inmates,  Picliegru, 
Sir  Sydney  Smith,  and  the  black  Prince  of  Ilayti,  Tons- 
saint  Louverture.  At  length,  and  within  the  present 
centur}",  this  vast  tower  was  demolished,  and  all  that 
now  remains  to  tell  the  tale  of  the  grandeur  of  the  temple 
is  the  Palace  of  the  Grand  Prior,  constructed  some  three 
centuries  since  by  Jacques  de  Souvre,  who  then  heldthnt 
high  office.  Philippe  Egalite,  the  Duke  of  Oi'leans,. 
father  of  .Louis  Philij^pe,  was  Grand  Master  in  1721,  and 
caused  the  palace  to  be  embellished  and  enlarged,  as  did 
also  the  Duke  of  Angouleme,  his  successor.  In  1812, 
Napoleon  designed  it  for  one  of  the  departments  of 
government;  in  181-4,  it  became  a  convent  of  Benedic- 
tine nuns,  which  it  still  continues,  and  for  the  convenience 
of  which  a  new  chapel  was  erected  thirty  j'ears  ago. 

Such  is  the  eventful  history  of  this  spot,  and  such  are 
some  of  the  scenes  it  recalls.  But  there  are  other 
circumstances  associated  with  this  ancient  place  more 
interestino"  than  even  these.    Here  Avas  the  chief  seat 

o 

of  that  wonderl'ul  brotherhood  of  Avarrior-monks,  Avhose 
name,  for  more  than  two  centuries,  Avasthe  glory  and  the 
terror  of  Cliristendom,  and  AA'hich,  as  a  peaceful  affiliation, 
still  exists. 


128 


THE  PALACE  OF  THE  TEMPLE. 


The  original  edifice  of  the  Temple  is  described  as  "a 
grim,  tall  cluster  of  gloomy  towers,  standing  in  the  centre 
of  a  vast  embattled  enclosure."  It  seems,  also,  like  all 
edifices  of  the  kind,  to  have  had  its  moats  and  its  draw- 
bridge, its  portcullis  and  its  donjon-keep.  It  certainly 
had  the  huge  square  tower,  already  mentioned,  rising 
above  its  walls,  flanked  by  four  lesser  towers,  and  which, 
if  chroniclers  are  to  receive  the  credence  they  claim,  like 
the  great  Tovv'er  of  the  Louvre,  stood  half-way  up  to  its 
middle  in  the  ground ;  and  of  whose  dungeons  and 
oiihliottes^  and  wells  and  in  paces ^  and  racks  and  question- 
chambers,  as  many  terrible  tales  were  told.  Indeed,  the 
Tower  of  the  Temple  was  viewed  by  the  good  citizens 
of  Paris  and  its  environs,  for  many  a  mile  around,  with 
even  more  of  horror  than  was  that  of  the  Louvre.  A 
cloud  of  midnight  m^^stery,  inspiring  awe  and  dread, 
hung  around  the  stern  and  inky  turrets  of  the  former 
whicli  existed  not  with  regard  to  those  of  the  latter. 
IMie  Tower  of  the  Louvre  stood  upon  the  banks  of  the 
Seine  in  the  midst  of  life,  and  light,  and  action,  and  it 
was  daily  passed,  and  it  was  daily  looked  at,  and  might, 
perchance,  be  daily  entered  by  almost  any  one.  But 
the  dark  turrets  of  the  Temple  rose  without  the  walls 
of  the  city,  upon  a  solitary  and  unfrequented  spot ; 
and  within  its  dusky  walls  trod  never  a  step  save  that 
of  a  Templar  Knight.  Upon  its  grim  battlements  no 
sentinel's  helm,  or  spear-point  flashed  back  the  rays  of 
the  setting  sun;  and  no  oriflamme  rolled  out  its  snowy 
folds  upon  the  evening  bi-eeze.  Bat  there,  at  twilight, 
might  be  caught  the  outline  of  strange  and  ghastly 


THE  PALACE  OF  THE  TEMPLE. 


129 


shapes,  dimly  defined  against  a  northern  sky,  of  dark 
wardei's  walking  their  lonely  rounds ;  while,  above 
them,  the  vast  standard  sheet  of  the  order — the  terri- 
ble Beauseaiit — half  black,  half  white — flapped  with 
raven- omen  its  huge  folds  against  the  staff. 

And  its  dark  and  fearful  history,  too! — its  racks  and 
its  tortures,  its  dungeons,  its  unheard  of  cruelties! 
And  the  midnight  conclaves,  the  fiendish  orgies,  the 
blasphemous  rites,  the  awful  vows,  the  unnatural  crimes, 
-the  idolatrous  worship,  the  lust,  the  guilt,  the  inconceiv- 
able enormities  of  which  the  pale-faced  peasant  took  hor- 
rible delight  in  making  these  mysterious  chambers  the 
scene ! — all  of  these  circumstances  tended  to  inspire  an 
undefined  horror  of  this  immense  structure—half  palace 
and  half  fortalice,  half  temple  and  half  prison — which, 
in  the  reign  of  Philip  le  Bel,  early  in  the  14:th  century, 
had  reached  its  height.  Sooner  than  walk  beneath  its 
baleful  shadows,  the  tired  traveler  would  perform  a  cir- 
cuit of  half  the  walls  of  Paris.  The  very  birds  of  the 
air  were  said  to  avoid  its  turrets ;  while  all  unfortunate 
fowls  that  did  chance  to  pass  over  it,  in  their  flight,  fell 
dead  within  its  walls !  At  night,  the  spot  was  as  lonely 
as  a  grave-yard — as  the  ancient  burial-vault  of  St.  Denis 
— and  when,  from  the  tall  and  lanceolated  windows  of  its 
Gothic  Cljapel,  at  the  dead  hour  when  spectres  walk  and 
the  departed  return,  blazed  forth  red  and  lurid  flames, 
and  strange  sounds,  as  of  the  roar  of  organ-pipes,  wildly 
commingled  with  groans  of  human  anguish,  and  strange 
shouts  and  solemn  songs  rose  on  the  blast — the  late 
passer  in  the  silent  and  deserted  street  would  cross  him- 


130 


THE  PALACE  OF  THE  TEMPLE. 


self  and  hurry  on;  and,  with  trembling  and  superstitions 
whispers,  bless  himself  aud  say,  "Hell  is  empty  !  The 
devils  are  on  earth  I  The  Templar  Knights  hold  the^r 
Sabbath  !  " 

Such  beinp;  the  dread  and  abhorrence  in  which  the 
<_) 

very  name  of  Templar  was  held  by  the  masses  of  the 
peopie  in  the  14th  ceutuiy,  it  will  not  be  thought  singu- 
lar that,  altliough  there  were  actually  several  hundred 
knights  at  that  era  in  Paris,  who  had  secretly  the  vows 
"upon  il  em,yet  but  few  were  general Ij^rnown  as  belong- 
ing to  the  order,  and  the  inmates  of  the  Palace  of  the 
'J'emple  at  this  time  consisted  only  of  the  Grand  Prior 
and  a  few  superannuated  serving  brethren.  The  great 
bod 3^  of  the  brotherhood,  which  then  numbered  not  less 
than  fifteen  thousand  Knights,  was  at  Limisso,  in  the 
Island  of  Cyprus,  its  last  sironghold  in  the  Levant ;  while 
vast  numbers  were  stat:oiied  in  the  Priories  of  every 
nation  in  Europe — not  one  excepted. 

*         -Jf  -X-  -x-  *         -X-  * 

Adrian  de  Marigni  and  Philip  de  Launai  both  dwelt  in 
the  Louvre.  It  was,  therefore,  an  easy  thing  for  them 
privately  to  meet  in  the  former's  chamber,  preparatory 
to  their  secret  expedition  at  the  hour  appointed, 

Phihp  was  enveloped  in  a  huge,  dark  mantle,  which 
concealed  his  form,  and  at  his  side  he  bore  a  swonh 
Adrian,  at  his  suggestion,  wa3  soon  similarly  garbed 
and  accoutred,  and  the  two  yoimg  men  went  forth. 

Windino-  throuoh  the  dark  e^allerics  of  the  Louvre,  to 
reach  the  southern  gate  leading  out  upon  the  quay,  they 


THE  PALACE  OF  THE  TEMPLE; 


131 


passed  tlie  apartments  oF  BlancLe  of  Artois.  Philip  was 
some  steps  in  advance  of  liis  coinpamon,  and  Adrian 
conld  not  resist  tlie  inclination  to  check  his  pace  as  he 
passed  that  door,  tlirougli  which  he  had  so  often  and  so 
eagerly  entered.  At  that  moment,  the  door,  which  had 
stood  somewhat  ajar,  suddenlj^  -opened — a  small  white 
hand  and  a  snowy  ai^m  wei'e  extended,  and  a  sol't  and 
well-known  voice  whispered  the  mystic  sjdlables,  "  Con- 
stancy— courage  I"  into  his  ear.  Catching  the  white 
hand,  he  pressed  it  fervently  to  his  lips.  It  was  instantly 
withdrawn,  the  door  closed,  and  Adrian  hurried  on  to 
reo-ain  his  s>uide,  who  awaited  him  at  the  lout  of  the 
stairs. 

Of  this  incident,  De  Marigni,  of  course,  said  nothing 
to  his  companion,  and  the  two  young  men,  having  given 
their  names  to  the  sentinel,  and  received  the  word  of  the 
night,  passed  through  tlie  wickets  and  across  the  moat 
upon  a  single  })lank,  and  were  on  the  quay.  Pi'ocecding 
a  few  steps  up  the  river,  they  stopped  at  a  small  calaret^ 
whei-e  wei'e  found  two  horses  ready  saddled  and  appa- 
rently awaiting  their  coming.  IMonnting  at  once,  they 
passed  I'apidly  on  up  the  Kne  St.  Martin,  then  the  chief, 
and,  with  the  Eue  St.  Denis,  the  only,  great  aitery  of 
the  Ville^  and  arrived,  wnthont  interruption,  at  the  gate. 
Through  this  they  readily  gained  egress,  when  DeLaunai 
had  whispered  the  secret  pass-word  into  the  Avarder's 
ear.  Emei'ging  upon  the  0|^en  fields,  the  3'oung  men  put 
their  steeds  to  a  gallop,  and  directing  their  route  to\vards 
a  huge  mass  oF  structure,  looming  darkly  up  on  their 
right,  fi'om  some  portions  of  which  bright  lights  were 


132 


THE  PALACE  OF  THE  TEMPLE. 


gleaming  fortli  on  tLe  gloom  without,  tliey  found  tliem- 
selves,  after  traversing  a  seeminglj^  endless  avenue, 
beneath  the  shadow  of  an  equally  endless  wall,  at  the 
grand  entrance,  on  tbe  west  side  of  the  Palace  of  the 
Temple. 

The  morning  dawn  was  diffusing  its  Avhite  light  over 
the  towers  and  roofs  of  Paris,  when  Adrian  de  Marigni, 
pale  and  exhausted,  emerged  with  his  companion  fi'om 
beneath  the  massive  gateway  of  the  Palace  of  the 
Temple  and  directed  his  steps  to  the  Louvre. 


THE  PEIXCE,  THE  POXTIFF  AXD  THE  KXIGHT.  133 


CnAPTER  XII. 

THE    PEIX'CE,  THE  POXTIFF  AXD  THE  EXIGHT. 

THE  consecration  of  Bertrand  do  Goth,  under  tlie 
name  of  Pope  Clement  FiftE.  in  the  city  of  Lyons, 
on  tlie  fonrteentb.  day  of  Xovember.  loCo,"^  must  have 
been  a  very  splendid  spectacle.  Three  months  before, 
invitations  to  tliis  grand  ceremonial  had  been  dispatched 
to  the  royal  heads  of  all  the  kingdoms  of  Christendom, 
bidding  them,  Avitli  ti.eir  Courts  and  tbeir  clergies,  to 
be  present.  And  a  more  brilliant  concourse  of  Bishops 
and  Archbishops,  of  priests  and  princes,  of  kings  and 
cardinals,  of  lords  and  ladies,  seems  rarely  to  have  been 
assembled,  than  that  which  vritnessed  the  imj)osition  of 
tlie  Papal  crown,  by  the  hands  of  iMatthew  Ursini,  on 
tiie  brow  of  the  two  hundredth  successor  of  St.  Peter. 

The  coronation  ceremony  having  been  performed, 
history  informs  ns  that  the  Sovereign  Pontiff  returned 
to  his  palace,  the  tiara  upon  his  head  and  the  pontifical 
robes  and  regalia  upon  his  person — his  white  horse  led 
alternately  by  the  Kings  of  Prance  and  Avignon  upon 
eitiier  side,  succeeded  by  Charles  of  Yalois  and  Louis 
d'Evreux,  the  brotiiers  of  Philip.  Ilistorv  also  informs 
us  that,  when  the  procession  had  arrived  at  the  base  of 
the  hill  on  which  stands  the  church  of  St.  Just,  an  old 
structure  suddenly  fell  upon  the  throng,  bv  which  the 


*  Some  authorities  say  Dec.  17, 1305. 


134   TII3  Pr.mCS,  TTTE  PONTIFF  AND  THE  KNIGHT." 

King  of  France  and  tlie  Connt  of  Yalois  were  badly 
Abounded,  the  Holy  Father  thrown  from  his  horse,  and 
his  brother  Gaillard  de  Goth,. together  with  the  Dnke 
of  Brittany  and  a  large  number  of  nobles  and  monks, 
instantly  killed;  and,  likewise,  that,  at  a  grand  festival 
given  a  few  days  subsequently,  on  the  occasion  of  the 
celebration  of  the  first  pontifical  mass,  a  sudden  fray 
arose,  in  which  a  second  brother  of  the  Pope  was  slain 
before  his  ej'cs. 

The  first  acts  of  Clement  Fifth  were  to  revoke  all  the 
ecclesiastical  censures  of  his  predecessor,  Boniface 
Eii^hth,  against  the  Kino;  of  France,  his  kino-dom  and  his 
friends;  to  remove  the  Papal  .See  from  Eome  to 
Avignon,  to  elevate  to  the  cardinalate  twelve  French 
bishops  who  were  nominated  by  the  King,  and  also 
James  and  Peter  Colonna,  and  to  restore  to  France  all 
the  fi-anchises  and  powei'S  claimed  by  her  sovereign. 

Thus  Avere,  at  once,  accomplished  four  of  the  articles 
of  the  compact  of  St.  Jean  d'Angely.  A  fifth  was 
more  difiicult  of  fulfillment.  This  was  the  decree  of 
infamy  against  the  acts  and  memory  of  Boniface  Eighth, 
which  was  sternly  demanded  by  the  King  and  strongly 
0])posed  by  the  Cardinal  de  Prato  as  perilous  and  impolitic. 
Overcome  by  this  persistency,  the  Pontiff  at  length  prom- 
ised compliance,  and  commenced  the  process  by  the  con- 
flagration, in  the  public  square  of  Avignon,  of  divers 
acts  put  forth  in  his  predecessor's  defence ;  but  further 
proceedings  were  instantly  checked  by  the  college  of 
cardinals  with  threats  of  the  Pontiff's  immediate 
removal  by  force  to  Eome,  if  the  acts  were  repeated. 


.-THE  PEIXCE,  THE  POXTIFF  AXD  THE  KXIGHT.  135 

Convinced  of  tlie  impossibility  of  tlie  fulfillment  of 
this  article  of  tlie  compact,  it  was  reluctantly  resigned 
bv  tlie  King  some  months  after,  and  in  its  place  he 
clemaiided  the.  elevation  to  the  throne  of  Germany,  made 
vacant  bv  the  assassination  of  the  Emperor  Albert  by 
his  OAvn  iiepheAV,  John,  Duke  of  Suabia,  his  brother 
■Cliarles  of  Talois.  The  Pontiff,  alarmed  at  the  idea  of 
concentrating  so  much  power  in  a  single  family,  imme- 
diately dispatched  couriers,  by  advice  of  the  Cardinal 
de  Prato,  to  tlie  German  Electors,  avIio,  at  this  urgency, 
^in  a  single  Aveok  assembled  in  Diet  and  proclaimed 
Ileiiiy  of  Luxembourg, — one  of  the  ablest  and  most 
renowned  men  of  that  era  in  Europe, — Emperor  of 
Germany  and  King  of  the  Eomans. 

Eurious  at  this  double  disappointment,  Philip 
instantly  left  Paris,  and  on  the  evening  of  June  12tli, 
1303,  arrived  at  Poitiers,  vhere  the  Sovereign  Pon- 
tiff then  lay  confined  to  his  bed  by  sickness,  which  sick- 
ness caused  by  his  vices  lasted  for  nearly  a  year. 

^' Pax  Yohiscum  I said  the  feeble  voice  of  Clement, 
as  the  King  of  Ernnce  entered  the  darkened  chamber. 

Philip  returned  no  reply,  but,  with  indignant  silence, 
seated  himself  beside  the  sick  conch  of  the  Pontiff. 

''^ Beneclicite^  my  son,"  said  Clement  again,  saluting  his 
guest  and  turning  upon  him  an  inquiring  gaze.  "Very 
greatly  am  I  beholden  to  tby  ]viety  for  thy  present 
visit.'' 

"To  my  piety ^  Holy  Eatlier!"  exclaimed  Philip,  with 
a  sneer.  "  Oh,  not  all !  It  Avas  not  regard  for  thee, 
•nor  even  regard  for  the  welfare  of  my  own  soul,  that 


136    THE  PEINCE,  THE  PONTIFF  AND  THE  KNIGHT. 


brought  me  from  Paris  to  Poitiers,  at  a  season  like  this, 
be  sure." 

"What  then,  mj  son?"  asked  Clement,  in  trembhng 
tones. 

"By  St.  Louis,  this/^''  exclaimed  Philip,  with  angry 
vehemence.  "  To  learn  from  your  own  lips  whether  you 
design,  or  do  not  design,  to  fulfill  the  articles  of  your 
solemn  compact  with  me  at  the  Abbey  of  St.  Jean 
d'Angely!" 

"My  son — my  son!"  expostulated  the  sick  Pontiff. 
"Is  this  the  mode  to  address  God's  Yicar  upon  earth — ■ 
the  head  of  the  Holy  Church  ?  " 

Philip  replied  only  with  a  sneer. 

"  Of  what  do  you  complain,  my  son  ? "  continued 
Clement,  mildly.  "In  what  have  1  failed  in  the  fulfill- 
ment of  my  covenant?" 

"The  decree  of  infamy  against  that  arch-fiend,  Boni- 
face Eighth!"  was  the  quick  and  angry  answer. 

"  Tliat  was  commenced,"  said  the  Pontift*,  "  but,  had  it 
been  completed,  the  Papal  See  would  now  have  been 
retranslated  to  Rome." 

"The  threats  of  the  cardinals  are  said  to  have  origi- 
nated with  the  Holy  Father  himself,"  was  the  sullen 
rejoinder. 

"Who  says  that?"  asked  Clement,  quickly. 
There  was  no  reply. 

"Yet,  if  you  choose  the  alternative,  my  son,  it  is  not 
yet  too  late.    The  decree  is  prepared,"  he  added. 

"Your  Holiness  is  fully  awaro  that  I  have  resigned 
that  article  of  the  compact,"  replied  the  King,  with  some 


THE  PEIXCE,  THE  POXTIFE  A^'D  THE  KXIGHT.  137 

confusion.  "In  its  place  I  requested  tliat  hit  brother, 
the  Count  of  Talois,  rniglit  be  elevated  to  tbe  imperial 
throne  cf  Germany." 

'"And  was  tliat  station  in  my  gift,  my  son?"  humbly 
asked  Clement. 

'■It  was  filled  by  yom^  Holiness  with  Henry  of 
Luxembourg,"  said  Philip,  sternly, — "if  report  speaks 
true!"' 

'•And  who  says  that?''  asked  Clement. 
Tiie  King  was  again  silent. 

''Henry  of  Luxembourg  was  lawfully  chosen  to  fill 
the  imperial  throne,  by  a  full  D.et  of  Cerman  Electors, 
to  whom  tliat  right  of  choice  legitimately  and  solely 
belonged,"  continued  the  Pope.  "Had  the  convention 
of  the  Diet,  or  its  action,  been  less  precipitate.  I  concede 
you  the  influence  of  the  Papal  See  might  have  been 
felt  in  favor  of  Count  Charles  of  Valols,  the  brave 
soldier  and  pious  prince.  But.  as  events,  by  tlie  Prov- 
idence of  God.  '://(/  transpire,  how  could  the  Sovereign 
Pontiff  have  foreseen,  or  prevented,  the  event  that 
occurred  ?  " 

Plushed  and  excited,  Clement  closed  his  eyes  and  fell 
back  upon  his  pillow,  and  Philip  forebore  to  press  a 
matter  from  wdiich  he  could  plainly  perceive  he  had 
nothing  to  gain,  or  to  anticipate. 

At  that  moment  one  of  the  attendants  of  the  Hoi}- 
Lather  announced  the  presence  in  the  Palace  of  the 
Grand  Master  of  the  order  of  Knights  Hospitalers  of  St. 
John,  who  had  just  arrived  from  the  island  of  Cyprus, 
and  craved  audience  on  matters  of  high  import. 


138    THE  PRINCE,  THE  PONTIFF  AND  THE  KNIGHT. 


"Let  him  approach/'  said  tlie  Pontiff,  secretly 
rejoiced  at  au  occurrence  which  interrupted  a  conference 
which  had  begun  to  grow  embarrassing. 

Tlie  attendant  witlidrew,  and,  immediately  after  the 
door  again  opened,  and  Fulk  de  Yillaret,  wlio  had 
recently  been  exalted  on  the  decease  of  his  brother, 
William  de  Yillaret,  to  the  high  station  of  Grand 
Master  of  the  Hospitalers,  stood  on  the  threshold. 

He  was  a  large  and  majestic  man,  some  forty  years  of 
age,  and  attired  in  tlie  full  costume  of  clnef  of  his 
order.  Tliis  costume  was  a  scarlet  cassock,  or  surcoat, 
with  a  broad  octagonal  cross  of  white  linen  sewed  upon 
the  breast,  and  a  similar  cross  upon  the  back.  Over 
this  surcoat  hung  the  full  black  mantle  of  the  order, 
with  che  same  cross  sewed  upon  the  left  shoulder.  His 
only  Aveapon  was  a  long  straight  sword  at  his  side,  with 
a  crucifix  hilt. 

"  Approach,  son,  and  receive  our  blessing,"  said  the 
Pontiff,  in  feeble  tones. 

The  kniglit  strode  at  once  to  tiie  bedside,  and,  kneel- 
ing, the  Holy  Father  laid  one  hand  upon  his  bowed 
head  and  pronounced  tlie  customary  Benedicite. 

The  Grand  Master  then  arose,  and,  having  saluted  the 
King  of  France,  stood  silent. 

"Your  mission,  son? — Speak!"  said  the  Pontiff. 

"My  mission,  Hoi 3^  Father,  is  threefold,"  returned 
the  knight.  "  First,  to  announce  the  decease  of  \Yilliam 
de  Yillaret,  late  Grand  Master  of  the  Knights  of  St. 
John,  my  lamented  brother,  whose  soul  may  God  rest!" 

''Ameai!"  responded  the  Pontiff. 


THE  PRINCE,  THE  PONTIFF  AND  THE  KNIGHT.  139 


•  "Second,  to  announce  to  your  Holiness  tlie  election 
of  your  unworthy  servant,  Fulk  de  Yillaret,  as  his 
successor." 

"  Amen  I  "  again  ejaculated  Clement. 

"And,  third,"  continued  De  Villaret,  "to  fulfill  my 
deceased  Master's  dying  injunction  to  repair  at  once  to 
your  Holiness,  so  soon  as  his  last  obsequies  were  cele- 
brated, and,  at  your  feet,  beseech  sanction  and  aid  to 
accomplish  the  enterprise  he  had  most  at  heart — the 
conquest  of  the  Island  of  Khodes  and  the  permanent 
location  there  of  the  throne  of  the  order,  that,  tliis 
fulfilled,  his  soul  might  rest." 

Clement  glanced  at  tlie  King^  and  a  gleam  of  joy  shot 
from  beneath  the  Pontiff's  shaggy  brows. 

"But  is  not  the  Island  of  Cyprus  already  the  retreat 
oF  your  noble  order,  Sir  Knight?"  asked  the  Holy 
Father. 

"In  common  with  the  Knights  of  the  Red  Cross,  wo 
have  there  our  seat,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  but,  in  common  with 
them,  we  deem  it  an  insecure,  undignified  and  unworthy 
station,  in  which  both  orders  are  subjected  to  most 
de2:radino;  exactions  from  the  Kins;  of  the  Island. 
Besides,  it  is  well  known  to  your  Iloliuess  that  the 
Knights  of  the  White  Gross  and  those  of  the  Bed  love 
not  each  other  " 

"Too  well — too  well  we  know  it,  Sir  Knight!" 
interrupted  the  Pope,  with  some  severity.  "The  con- 
flicts oF  these  rival  brotherhoods  have  long  been  a  scan- 
dal to  Christendom  and  the  Church,  and  have  mainly 
conduced  to  the  recovery  by  Infidels  of  the  Sepulchre  of 
9 


140   THE  PRINCE,  THE  PONTIFF  AND  TEIE  KNIGHT. 

our  Lord.  To  iinite  tliese  orders  into  one*  methinks  miglit 
Leal  tliis  perpetual  i'eud  and  most  disgraceful  scliism." 

And  the  Holy  Father  again  glanced  slyly  at  the  King. 

"Now,  may  your  Holiness  and  our  patron  saint,  most 
excellent  St.  John,  forbid!"  began  the  Grand  Master  in 
alarm.    "  "We  do  bcscecli  " 

.  "Well,  well.  Sir  Knight,"  interrupted  Clement,  "we 
will  confer  on  this  matter  at  some  other  time.  What 
advantacre  to  Mother  Church  is  to  inure  from  this  mad 
expedition,  to  which  you  now  solicit  our  sanction  and 
aid?    Be  brief." 

"First,  your  Holiness,"  replied  the  Grand  Master, 
*'Ehodes  is  nearer  than  CjqDrus  to  Palestine." 

"  Yv^ell,"  said  the  Pontiff. 

"  Second,  it  is  more  impregnable." 

"  And,  therefore,  will  bo  less  easy  of  capture,"  added 
tlie  Pope.    "But,  go  on." 

"  Third,  it  has  a  more  commodious  harbor." 

"  And  may,  therefore,  be  more  easily  retaken,"  said 
Clement. 

"  Fourth,  its  position,  wealth,  commerce  and  maratime 
power  render  it  a  worthy  seat  of  an  ancient  oi'der." 

"  And,  fifth,"  said  Clement,  "  its  conquest,  wliile 
affording  a  brilliant  expedition  to  one  order  of  kniglits, 
would  effectually  prevent  them,  meanwhile,  from  trying 
their  long  swords  on  the  steel  caps  of  another! " 

"  Besides,  the  advantage  to  all  Christendom  and  the 
Church," — began  De  Yillaret  with  renewed  enthusiasm. 


*  Pope  Gregory  X.  aiirl  St.  Louis,  at  rlie  Council  of  Lyons,  stroye,  in  yain,  to 
effect  tliis.  Tii'e  efforts  of  B.;iiiface  VIII.  and  Clement  V.  to  the  same  end 
proved  equally  Inelfectual. 


THE  PEIXCE,  THE  POXTIFF  AlsD  THE  KNIGHT.  141^ 


"  JSTo  more — no  more,  Sir  Kmglit !  "  said  Clement, 
impatiently,  raising  liis  liaud.  "You  forget  tliat  you 
are  not  on  tlie  deck  of  your  own  Avar-gallej^,  and  tliat 
onr  ears  are  nnnsed  even  to  tones  of  command.  Witliin 
two  days  you  will  Lave  onr  answer.  You  can  go,  Sir 
Knight.    Pax  vohisciiin  ! 

And,  Avitli  a  profound  obeisance  to  the  Sovereign 
Pontiff,  and  one  only  less  profound  to  tlie  sovereign  of 
Trance,  tliis  great  cliief  of  a  powerful  order  left  tli& 
chamber. 

"  What  tliink  you,  my  son  ?  "  asked  Clement,  after  a 
pause,  during  whicb  each  potentate  awaited  speech  of 
tlie  other. 

"  Of  what,  your  Holiness  ?  "  responded  Philip,  starting 
as  if  from  a  dream. 

"  Of  the  conquest  of  Ehodes  ?  " 

"  That  it  would  ]irove  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
events  that  could  lend  lustre  to  any  Pontificate,"'  was 
the  answer. 

"  We  agree,  my  son — for  once  we  agree  1  "  joyfully 
exclaimed  Clement. 

Philip  smiled  significantlj^,  but  said  notking. 

"  But  the  means,  my  son — the  Grand  Master  asks  out 
aid,  as  Avell  as  our  sanction." 

"Your  Holiness  can  readily  advance  a  kundred  thou- 
sand florins  for  suck  an  enterprise." 

Clement  shook  his  liead,  tlien  said  : 

"  Well,  granted.    But  the  armv?  " 

"  Anotlier  crusade,"  suggested  Philip,  smiling. 

The  Holy  Father  seemed  absorbed  in  thought. 


142    THE  PRINCE,  THE  PONTIFF  AND  THE  KNIGHT. 

"That  might  do,"  he,  at  length,  said, ''if  skilfully 
managed,  and  the  true  object  of  the  expedition  only  pro- 
claimed when  tlio  fleet  was  at  Ljcia,  ready  to  descend 
on  Rhodes." 

"  Your  Holiness  alluded  but  now,  with  the  Grand 
Master,  to  an  union  of  the  two  orders  of  soldier- 
monks,"  observed  Pliilip. 

"  Several  of  my  predecessors  have  entertained  that 
pui'pose,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Popes  Gregory  Tenth,  Nicholas  Fourth  and  Boniface 
Eighth  favored  the  union,  I  think  ?  "  coldly  continued 
the  King. 

"  Yet,  each  was  induced  to  resign  the  scheme  as 
impolitic,"  said  Clement. 

"  Does  your  Holiness  remark  any  contrast  between  the 
chivalric  ambition  of  the  Knights  of  St.  John  and  the 
vicious  indolence  of  the  Knights  of  the  Temple  in  their 
voluptuous  retreats?"  asked  Philip,  dryly. 

Clement  started  and  then  quietly  i-eplied  . 

"  It  is  true,  son,  that  the  Templar  Knights  possess 
some  of  the  richest  portions  of  Europe." 

*'  Some  of  the  richest  portions  of  France  they  certainly 
call  their  own,"  replied  Philip.  "  Is  your  Holiness  aware 
that  the  income  of  this  overgrown  order  is  estimated  at 
ten  millions  of  florins  annually?  " 

"  Holy  St.  Peter  ! — is  that  possible  ?  "  exclaimed 
Clement,  thrown  for  once  off  his  guard  by  mention  of  a 
sura  so  enormous  at  that  time.  Recovering  his  pro- 
priety, however,  he  coldly  added:  "There  is  some  bruit 
of  vice  in  this  order,  is  there  not,  my  son?  " 


THE  PRINCE,  THE  PONTIFF  AND  THE  KNIGHT.  l-iS 

"  Your  Holiness  cannot  be  unaware,"  returned  Philip, 
"  that,  as  an  order,  the  Knights  of  the  Temple  are  cur- 
rently charged,  all  over  Christendom,  with  the  commis- 
sion of  most  incre>lible  and  abominable  crimes,  to  which 
the  violations  of  all  the  vows  of  their  order  and  all  the 
edicts  of  the  decaloo'ue  itselr  are  as  innocence." 

"  But  tliesG  charges  are  not  sooth,  my  son — they  can- 
not be  sooth  !  "  exclaimed  Clement. 

How  should  /  know,  your  Holiness?  "  was  the  cool 
answer.    "Am  I  a  Templar?" 

"It  had  reached  me,"  said  Clement,  "  that  the  Temp- 
lars were  accused  of  indolence,  luxmy,  pride  and  other 
like  vices.  Indeed,  I  do  remember  me  that,  so  long  ago 
as  the  year  1208,  the  gTeat  Innocent  III.,  the  most  am- 
bitious of  Pontiffs  and  warmest  of  friends  of  the  Temple, 
severely  censured  the  order,  in  an  epistle  to  its  Grand 
Master,  charoiug;  them  with  bearins;  the  cross  ostenta- 
tiously  on  the  breast  but  not  in  the  heart.  But  never 
hath  reached  me  report  of  the  crimes  of  the  which  yon 
speak." 

"Hath  it  ever  reached  vour  Holiness,"  asked  the  Kinor 
with  intense  bitterness,"  that  these  'Poor  Fellow-soldiers 
of  Jesus  Christ  and  the  temple  of  Solomon,'  as  they 
m3ekly  style  themselves,  once  secretly  pledged  their 
swords  to  Pope  Boniface  Eighth,  in  event  he  should  deem 
it  discreet  to  take  the  field  against  the  King  of  France, 
although  openly  they  professed  themselves  that  mon- 
arch's friends?  " 

"  ^ly  son — my  son— what  would  joxi  ?  "  asked  Clement 
in  dismay. 


144   THE  PRINCE,  THE  PONTIFF  AND  THE  KNIGHT. 


Hg  knew  not  Low  shortly  Le  miglit  be  forced  to  call 
upon  that  same  powerful  arm  for  protection  against  that 
same  powerful  foe,  and  he  now  began  to  suspect  a  dread- 
ful design  on  part  of  the  King. 

"  Hath  it  reached  your  Holiness,"  continued  Pliilip  in 
the  same  sarcastic  tone,  "that  some  of  the  most  eminent 
of  tliese  friar-knights  have  spurned  our  authority,  in- 
sulted our  person,  ridiculed  our  power,  defied  our  ven- 
geance, tampered  with  our  enemies  as  well  as  our  rebel- 
lious subjects,  and,  finally,  have  even  conspired  against 
our  crown  ?  " 

"  My  son — my  son — what  would  you  ?  "  again  ex- 
claimed the  Sovereign  Pontifi',  in  extreme  agitation. 

"  The  accomplishment  of  the  Sixth  Article  of  the 
Covenant  of  St.  Jean  cl'Angely  I  " 

"  And  that?  "  gasped  Clement,  raising  himself  in  bed, 
and  g^^ing  with  open  lips,  and  dilated  eyes,  and  face  as 
livid  as  death,  upon  his  tormentor. 

"  And  that,"  rejoined  tlie  King,  in  a  low  whisper  of 
bitter  hate,  "  is  the  utter  destruction  of  the  Order  of  the 
Templar  Knights ! " 

Clement  uttered  a  faint  cry,  and,  closing  his  eyes,  fell 
back  npon  his  pillow. 

"  The  Holy  Father  takes  it  hard  ! "  said  Phihp  to  him- 
self, gazing  with  a  grim  smile  upon  the  unhappy  Pontifi:'. 
"No  wonder!  The  Templars,  he  well  knows,  are  his  only 
protection  in  his  need,  as  truly  as  they  were  of  Boniface. 
Has  he  actually  fainted?  That  luould  be  strange  !  No," 
he  added,  after  a  pause.  "He  revives!  He  speaks! 
Now!" 


THE  PRIXCE,  THE  POXTIFF  AND  THE  KNIGHT.  145 


"My  son,"  feebly  murimired  the  Pontiff. 

"  Holy  Father,''  meekly  returned  Philip. 

"  This  cannot  be  !  "  sighed  Clement. 

"  The  Abbey  of  St.  Jean  d'Angch' — tlie  parchment — 
the  oatli  on  the  reliques  and  the  cross!"  quietl}^  rejoined 
the  Kino'.    "  This  must  be  !  '' 

o 

"But,  upon  Avliat  charge  shall  this  great  thing  be 
done?  "  asked  the  distressed  Pontiff. 

"On  the  charge  of  heresy  to  the  Church,"  was  the 
answer.    "  Heresy — of  course,  heresy." 

"  Holy  Mother  I  "  ejaculated  Clement. 

Philip  sneered. 

"  But  how  shall  it  be  proved,  my  son  ?  "  continued  the 
Pontiff. 

"  Has  my  pious  grandsire,  Saint  Louis,  of  blessed 
memory,  with  his  pious  consort,  Blanche  of  Castile, 
planted  a  branch  of  the  Holy  Office  in  the  capital  of 
France  for  naught?"  asked  the  King,  with  a  meaning 
smile. 

"  But  this  is  a  perilous  scheme,  my  son.  Think  of 
the  vast — the  incalcuhible  power  of  this  ancient  and 
mighty  order ! " 

"  For  that  very  reason  it  must  be  crushed  !" 

"  Bat  we  must  proceed  slowlj^,  and  surelj',  and  secretly, 
my  son  ;  or,  like  Samson  of  old,  we  sliall  pull  down 
this  ponderous  Temple  of  the  Philistines  on  our  own 
heads." 

"  Most  true.  Holy  Father." 

"We  must  first  patiently  and  diligently  elicit  and 
investigate  the  charges  against  this  ancient  and  power- 


146    THE  PEINCE,  THE  PONTIFF  AND  THE  KNIGHT. 


ful  brotlierhood,  to  tlie  end  that  we  may  have,  at  least, 
a  semblance  of  justice  in  their  destruction." 
"  Most  true,  Holy  Father." 

Clement  now  breathed  more  freely.  Could  he  but 
gain  time,  he  had  little  apprehension  of  the  ultimate 
]'esult. 

Philip  smiled.  He  divined  what  passed  in  the  mind 
of  the  Pope. 

"  What,  then,  shall  be  the  first  step  in  this  great 
enter[)rise,  my  son  ?  " 

"  Your  Holiness,  ag  the  spiritual  head  of  the  Templars, 
will  order  Jacques  de  Molai,  Grand  Master  of  that  order, 
who  is  now  at  Cyprus,  at  oncO  to  embark  for  France, 
and  then  from  Avignon  repair  to  Paris." 

"  But,  upon  what  pretense  ?  "  asked  Clement. 

"  In  order  that  he  may  consult  with  the  Sovereign 
Pontiff,  and  the  sovereign  of  France,  as  touching  the 
propriety  of  the  new  crusade,  which  your  Holiness  just 
suggested  in  regard  of  the  conquest  of  Rhodes." 

"Aye,  my  son,  that  will  do,"  said  the  Pope  quickly. 

"  Bid  him  coine  speedily,  with  the  utmost  secrecy,  and 
with  a  small  retinue  of  knights,  and  to  bring  with  him 
all  the  treasure  he  can  collect,  with  the  view  to  arm  and 
equip  a  large  army  for  the  Holy  War  now  contem- 
plated," continued  Philip, 

"It  shall  be  done,  my  son — it  shall  be  instantly 
done  1 "  eagerly  cried  Clement,  who  now  felt  quite  sure 
that  he  could  contrive  to  avert  the  doom  of  the  devoted 
order,  on  whose  safety  his  own  so  vitally  hung. 

"  Many  thanks,  Holy  Father,"  meekly  replied  Philip, 


THE  PEINCE,  THE  PONTIFF  AXD  THE  KNIGHT.  147 


rising.  "  And,  now,  I  crave  to  take  my  leave.  It 
behooves  me  to  wait  upoa  the  Countess  of  Perigorcl, 
daughter  of  the  Count  ot'Foix,  ^  and  see  with  mine  own 
eyes,  ere  I  depart  for  Paris,  whether  the  lady  is,  indeed, 
as  transcend  an  tly  lovely  as  universal  fame  asserts.  Your 
Holiness  will  pardon  reference  to  such  vanities.  Besides, 
the  agitation  of  the  past  hour  must  have  proved  very 
exhausting  to  an  invalid.  Your  blessing,  Holy  Father  I  " 
added  Philip  meekly. 

"  You  have  it,  son  !  "  w^s  the  equally  meek  reply. 

Phihp  left  the  chamber. 

"  Does  he  think  to  elude  me^  the  simpleton  I  "  mut^ 
tered  the  King,  as  the  door  closed  behind  him.  "Ah, 
Bertrand  de  Goth  ! — Bertrand  de  Goth  !  Once  place 
the  Grand  Master  of  this  hated  order  f  ^vithin  the  avails 
of  Paris,  and  " 

Concluding  the  sentence  wdtli  a  low  and  bitter  laugh, 
more  significant  than  even  the  menace,  he  passed  on. 

Clement  Fifth  listened  to  the  retreating  footsteps 
of  the  King  along  the  corridor.  The  instant  their  last 
echoes  ceased,  he  threw  himself  from  his  couch,  and, 
dravnng  around  him  an  ermineil  mantle,  began  rapidly 


*Villani  nsci  ibes  the  removal  of  tlie  Papal  See  from  Rome  to  Avignon  to 
Clement's  attachment  to  this  lady.  It  remained  at  Avigrion  7U  years. 

t  The  causes  of  Philip's  hostility  to  the  Temple -were  various.  The  Tem- 
plars had  ever  heen  staunch  partisans  of  Papal  ])<)\ver,  wliich  Philip  I'.ad  ever 
striven  to  diminish  ;  nu  K  in  his  contiict  with  Eoniface  VIII,  they  li;ul  openly 
sided  atiainst  hi)n  ana  with  tlieir  spiritual  supreme.  They  had  loudly 
denounced  tlie  Koyal  and  repeated  debasement  ol  coin  of  the  realm,  by  wliich 
their  order  liad  greatly  suffered.  Tliey  were  urgent  for  the  repayment  of 
vast  sums  at  different  periods  loaned  the  King,  wiiich  he  was  utterly  unable 
to  repay.  Their  wrath  and  power  were  great  :  so  were  their  arrogance  and 
pride  ;  and  equally  so  was  tlieir  unpopularity  witli  the  masses.  Tliey  pos- 
sessed the  rieliest  estates  in  France  and  were  connected  with  the  noblest 
families,  and  now,  having  returned  finally  from  tiie  East,  they  presented  a 
most  imposing  bulwark  to  the  power  of  the  Crown,  which  every  day  was 
becoming  more  despotic. 


148    THE  PRINCE,  THE  PONTIFF  AND  THE  KNIGHT. 

pacing  the  apartment.  The  cutting  irony  of  Philip's 
last  words  had  pierced  him  to  the  quick. 

"By  Heaven!  I  think  tliat  man  mocks  me!"  he 
exclaimed,  livid  with  ras>e.  "  And  is  it  for  this  I  am 
Sovereion  Pontiff  of  the  Church  of  Eome  ?  Benedict 
Gaetan  !  "  he  faintly  ejaculated,  raising  his  trembling- 
hands  and  his  ej^es  to  Heaven — "Benedict  Gaetan!  my 
early  and  my  only  friend! — pardon  the  frailty  which 
hath  made  liie  the  unnatural  associate  of  thy  deadliest 
foe,  as  well  as  mine.  Thy  unavenged  spirit  liovers  over 
me  now;  and  here,  from  this  hour,  do  I  devote  all  my 
powers  of  mind,  body,  or  station  to  visit,  under  thy 
guidance,  thy  wrongs  and  my  own  upon  Philip  of 
France ! " 


THE  TE^^IPLAES  IX  PARIS. 


149 


CHAPTER  XTII. 

THE  TEMPLARS   IX  PARIS. 

PAPiIS,  in  tlie  earlv  part  of  the  Fourteenth  Centnr\^, 
had  four  great  thoroughfares,  on  ^vhich  as  a 
framework^  all  the  lesser  streets  and  hanes  at  that  time 
were  woven,  and  since  that  time  have  been  woven. 

These  four  grand  avenues  crossed  each  other  at  right 
angles,  and  extended  east  and  west,  north  and  south, 
from  wall  to  wall. 

From  north  to  south, — from  the  gate  of  St.  Martin 
to  the  gate  of  St.  Jacques,  straight  through  the  three 
districts  of  YiUe^  Cite^  and  Universite^  ran  one  of  these 
thoroughfares,  and  parallel  to  this,  and  from  the  gate 
of  St.  Denis  to  the  gate  of  St.  Michael,  ran  another. 
There  were,  however,  but  two  bridges,  massive  struc- 
tures of  stone, — instead  of  four  across  the  two  arms  of 
the  Seine, — the  Petit  Pont  and  the  Pont  au  Change. 

From  east  to  west,  the  two  thoroughfares  ran  from 
the  gate  of  St.  Antoine  to  the  gate  of  St.  Honore,  in  the 
YlUe^  and  from  the  gate  of  St.  Victor  to  the  gate  of  St. 
Germain,  in  the  Universite.  In  the  Cite^  there  was  not 
then,  nor  is  there  now,  nor  ever  has  been,  so  far  as  maj 
be  inferred  from  maps  and  charts,  an}-  one  grand  artery 
extending  from  one  end  of  the  island  to  the  other — from 
east  to  west. 

Early  on  the  morning  of  April  5th,  1307,  the  good 


150 


TIIS  TEMPLARS  IN  PARIS. 


citizens  of  Paris  who  dwelt  near  tlie  gate  of  St.  Jacqnes, 
were  roused  fi-oni  their  slumbers  bj  the  most  melodious 
and  thrilling  strains  of  trumpet- music  they  had  ever 
heard. 

It  was  a  sweet  morning, — calm,  cool,  clear,  and  the 
whole  eastern  horizon  beyond  the  wood  of  Yincennes, 
and  the  seven  rectangular  towers  of  its  massive  keep, 
was  suffused  witli  those  mellow  and  iris  tints  which 
anticipate  the  dawn. 

The  wild  and  unearthly  music  ceased.  It  was  a  sum- 
mons to  the  warder  of  the  gate  of  St.  Jacques,  and  was 
instantly  obeyed.  The  drawbridge  descended, — the 
portcullis  rose  and  then,  within  the  walls  of  Paris 
entered  a  calvacade,  such  as  till  that  morning  it  had 
never  witnessed  before,  and  such  as  since  that  morning 
it  has  never  witnessed  again. 

Fi]'sr,  in  that  strange  procession,  came  a  man  of  large 
frame,  and  tall  and  erect  stature,  upon  a  war-horse  of 
similar  dimensions  and  form.  The  horse  was  black  as 
night,  and  his  breast,  and  front  and  flanks  were  pro- 
tected by  plates  of  steel.  As  for  the  rider,  his  armor 
was  chain-mail,  from  top  to  toe,  while  a  round  steel  cap 
covered  his  head,  and  a  neck  guaa-d,  also  of  chain  called 
the  camail^  fell  over  his  shoulders.  His  arms  were  a 
broad-bladed  and  heavy  sword,  called  a  falchion^  hang- 
ing on  his  left  thigh,  and  a  broad  dagger,  called  the 
ancelace,  tapering  to  a  point  exceedingly  minute,  uj)on 
his  right  breast.  At  the  bow  of  his  war-saddle  swung 
a  ponderous  mace-at-arms  on  one  side,  balanced  by  a 
battle-axe,  equally  ponderous,  on  the  other.    Upon  his 


THE  TEMPLARS  IX  PARIS. 


151 


left  arm  was  a  small  triangular  shield,  on  Lis  heels  were 
spurs  of  gold,  and  on  liis  hands  gauntlets  of  chain-mail, 
reaching  to  the  elbow,  and  meeting  tlie  licniher  wljich 
protected  tlie  neck  and  breast.  Over  the  mail  and 
descending  as  low  as  the  knee,  was  a  crimson  surcoat, 
like  a  Uouse  of  the  present  day.  Over  this  from  the 
risht  shoulder,  crossinp;  the  bi-east  to  the  left  thioh,  was 
seen  a  broad  leathern  belt,  which,  with  another  around 
the  waist,  assisted  b}^  a  third,  sustained  the  ponderous 
falchion.  Over  the  whole  figure,  thus  armed  and 
accoutred,  hung  a  fuill  and  lieaA^y  mantle,  or  cloak,  of 
Burrel  cloth,  white  as  snow,  fastened  by  a  clasp  closely 
around  the  neck,  clinging  with  equal  closeness  to  the 
shoulders,  and  descending  in  voluminous  folds  to  the 
heels.  On  the  white  ground  of  the  mantle,  and  upon 
the  left  shoulder,  was  cut  a  broad  cross  with  crimson 
velvet.  This  device  was  the  only  one  which  anywhere 
appeared,  and  its  singularitj^  was  the  more  remarkable 
from  the  fict,  that,  at  that  era,  the  knight  wore  his 
armorial  bearings  fully  emblazoned  on  pennon  and 
shield,  surcoat  and  crest,  and  even  on  the  frontlet,  breast- 
plate and  housings  of  his  steed.  In  his  right  hand  he 
bore  a  long  rod  of  ebony,  called  abacus ^ — a  baton  of 
office,  surmounted  b}^  an  octangular  plate  of  metal,  on 
which  was  graven  the  same  device. 

The  man,  whose  armor,  arms,  costume  and  device  are 
thus  delineated,  was,  apparently,  some  sixty  years  of 
age.  His  form  and  features  were  large, — his  complexion 
very  dark, — his  eye  black  and  piercing, — his  beard, 
^v'hich  swept  his  breast,  was  white  as  snow,  while  a 


152 


THE  TEMPLARS  IN  PARIS. 


thick  moustaclie  rested  on  liis  upper  lip.  The  expres- 
sion  of  bis  couDtenaDce  was  severe,  solemn,  command- 
ing, "bold, — indicating  a  will  of  iron  poAver  and  of  iron 
tenacity.  Tije  wLole  man,  indeed,  form,  face,  and 
aspect,  seemed  of  iron, — dark,  unbending,  indomitable, 
terrible;  and  tlie  effect  of  tbose  deep-set  and  piercing 
eyes,  wliicb  gleamed  beneath  his  steel  cap  and  con- 
trasted with  his  snowy  hair  and  beard,  was  that  of  a 
lamp  blazing  in  a  sepulchre.  At  the  same  time,  a 
broad  scar,  spanning  his  left  cheelv,  added  to  the  stern- 
ness of  his  aspect. 

This  man  was  Jacques  de  Molai,  Grand  Master  of  the 
Order  of  Templar  Knights. 

Behind  this  majestic  and  imperial  form  followed  an 
array  of  sixty  men,  each  so  identically  the  same  in  arms 
and  armor,  steed  and  costume  with  his  leader,  that,  sav- 
ing tlie  peculiarities  of  face  and  form,  and  the  mystic 
abacus  of  rank,  A\diicli  was  supplied  by  the  spear,  and 
the  awe  and  respect,  with  which  he  seemed  regarded,  it 
wonld  have  been  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  have  dis- 
tinguished one  man  from  another.  All  the  horses  were 
black,  and  all  liad  the  same  accoutrement;  all  the  riders 
were  men  oF  stately  stature  and  adamantine  frame;  all 
bore  the  self-same  arms  and  armor,  as  their  great 
leader ;  on  the  head  of  each  gleamed  the  round  steel  cap, 
without  crest  or  plume,  and  from  the  shoulders  of  each 
depended  the  full  and  flowing  mantle  of  white,  with  its 
crimson  device.  But  all  were  not  identical  in  age  or 
aspect.  Some  were  old, — the  veterans  of  an  hundred 
battles  beneath  a  blazing  sun, — upon  the  sands  of  a 


THE  TEMPLARS  IX  FAEIS. 


153 


forsign  soil — against  a  merciless  foe;  "but  tlie  lapse  of 
years,  and  the  perils  and  hardships  endured,  seemed  only 
to  haye  indurated — petrified  their  hardy  frames;  while 
their  swarth}^  faces  covered  all  over  Avith  scars,  and  their 
flaming  eves,  oft'ered  a  marked  contrast  to  their  snowy 
beards  and  mantles.  And  some  were  coniparatively 
young, — some  in  the  very  prime  of  life;  and  their 
stately  and  symmetrical  forms,~their  black  and  luxu- 
riant beards — their  fierce  and  brilHant  eyes,  and  their 
handsome  faces,  harmonized  well  with,  the  striking  cos- 
tume of  tliemselves  and  tlieir  steeds. 

Such  was  the  little  band  of  Templar  Knights,  only 
sixty  in  number,  wliieh,  on  the  morning  of  Api'il  5th, 
1307,  entered  the  southeastern  gate  of  Paris. 

Obedient  to  the  mission  of  tlie  Sovereign  Pontiff, 
Clement  Fifth,  tbeir  spiritual  supreme,  they  had,  at  once, 
in  unquestioning  obedience  to  the  will  of  their  Grand 
Master,  embarked  fi'om  Cyprus, — landed  at  Marseilles, 
— repaired  to  the  Holy  Father  at  Avignon,  and  thence, 
at  his  order,  marched  to  Paris.  They  Avere  but  sixty 
men,  but  thej^  were  sixty  Templars  ;  and  that  number 
sixty  times  told  would  have  dared  not  offer  themselves 
their  match  in  open  field  ! 

Having  crossed  the  drawbridge  and  entered  the  city,, 
the  troop  immediately  assumed  its  prior  order  of  march. 
That  order  was  an  oblong,  hollow  square,  in  the  centre 
of  wdiicli  moved  a  train  of  twelve  beasts  of  burthen, 
heavily  laden,  and  conducted  by  a  body  of  serving 
brothers  of  the  order,  some  tAvo  hundred  in  number, 
garbed  in  black.    Here,  also,  rode  the  trumpeters  of  the 


154 


THE  TEMPLAES  IN  PARIS. 


ba-Qcl;  and  from  tlie  centre  rose  tbe  vast  Beaiiseant — tlie 
baoner  of  tlie  Temple.  In  front  of  this  impressive  cav- 
alcade, at  a  distance  of  several  yards,  advanced  Jacques 
de  Molai,  as  slowly  as  liis  trained  steed  could  step, — his 
keen  eye  fixed  sternly  forward,  regardless  of  all  objects 
on  his  way,  on  tlie  right  or  on  the  left,  and  his  baton  of 
rank  grasped  firmly  and  perpendicularly  in  his  hand. 
In  the  self-same  manner  advanced  each  Templar,  grasp- 
ing his  lance. 

■  It  was  a  dark,  and  solemn,  and  terrible  band  !  It  was 
a  thunder-cloud,  skirted  with  silver  and  flashing  v/ith 
steel!  It  was  a  slnmbering  tornado,  which  had  only  to 
be  roused  to  bless  or  to  ban!  It  was  a  troop  of  iron  men 
on  iron  steeds, — dark  spectres  of  the  fancy, — until,  roused 
by  one  magic  word  from  the  bronze  lips  of  the  majestic . 
shape  that  led  them,  instantly  each  man  became  a  giant 
of  power  and  of  might !  It  was  a  band  of  those  Avonderful 
men,  who,  for  two  hundred  years,  were  the  dread  and 
the  admiration  of  the  whole  world.  With  their  terrible 
name,  like  that  of  Eichard,  the  Saracen  mother  had 
hushed  her  unquiet  babe  to  its  slumber,  and  the  Saracen 
rider  had  quelled  his  refractory  barb ;  while,  throughout 
all  Europe,  its  boast  and  its  dismay  were  alike  those 
soldier-monks. 

These  men  were  not  as  other  men.  They  lived  not  as 
other  men.  They  had  not,  they  seemed  not  to  have  like 
passions  with  other  men.  Clouds  and  darkness  were 
around  them.  Human  steel  seemed  to  harm  them  not, 
• — human  power  seemed  idle  against  them!  To  them, 
the  Avill  of  one  man,  old,  perchance,  and  infirm,  was 


THE  TEMPLARS  IN  PARIS. 


155 


tlie  will  of  God  ;  and,  m  obedience  to  tliat  will,  tLere 
was  no  doom  they  would  not  brave, — no  torture  tliey 
would  not  endure  !  The  loftiest  rank,  the  most  resist- 
less power,  the  most  countless  wealth  was  theii's ;  yet,  in 
the  stern  severity  of  tlieir  order,  they  seemed  to  scorn  it 
all.  One  old  man's  will  seemed  more  to  them  than  the 
will  of  all  other  men  together — than  even  the  will  oTGod 
himself! — more  than  all  the  blandishments  of  woman — 
more  than  all  the  seductions  of  passion — moi-e  than  all 
the  splendors  of  wealth, — more  than  all  the  untold  glories 
of  ambitious  conception  !  On  the  baxtle-field  they  were 
fiends;  before  the  altar  saints, — -in  the  conclave  slaves 
to  one  man's  will!  To  all  men  save  one  they  were  slei'n, 
scornful,  despotic.  To  him,  they  were  meek,  yielding,— 
obedient  beyond  all  conception  and  all  credence. 

Such  was  a  band  of  these  wonderful  men,  now  led  by 
their  Grand  Master  within  the  walls  of  Paris;  and  their 
blind  obedience  to  that  one  old  man, — their  unily  of 
purpose, — their  concentration  of  will,,  was,  perhaps,  the 
chief  element  of  the!r  streuiith. 

o 

Passing  through  the  gate  of  St.  Jacques,  as  has  been 
said,  and  entering  the  head  of  the  street  of  the  same 
name,  the  close  cohort  of  spears  had  no  sooner  resumed 
its  form  of  march,  than,  at  an  imperce[)tible  signal  from 
the  mystic  abacus  of  their  leader,  all  the  trumpets  of 
the  band  at  once  burst  forth,  into  an  air  so  wild,  so  shrill, 
so  sweet,  and  yet  so  solemn,  that  the  whole  Universite 
was  instantly  awake,  and  its  doors,  and  windows,  and 
streets  were  thronged  with  curious  gazers.  But  not  a 
man  of  that  formidable  band  looked  to  the  right  nor  the 
10 


156 


THE  TEMPLAES  IN  PARIS. 


left.  On  went  their  leader  midway  down  tlie  street  of 
St.  Jacques,  through  the  yawning  arch  of  the  Petit 
Chatelet,  and  the  Petit  Pont,  and  right  on  followed  his 
knights. 

By  the  time  that  the  cavalcade  had  crossed  the  bridge, 
and  had  ngain  resumed  its  ordei',  and  was  advancing 
down  the  northern  quay  of  the  Cite^  having  passed  tlie 
twin  giants  of  Notre  Dame  unnoticed,  on  their  right,  and 
the  grim  old  Palace  of  Justice,  then  in  the  course  of  re- 
construction, on  their  left,  all  Paris  had  gathered  to  wit- 
ness the  scene ;  and  as  the  Pont  au  Change  was  crossed,  and 
the  Grand  Chatelet  passed,  and  the  priestly  band  emerged 
from  its  gloomy  gateway  on  the  street  of  St.  Denis,  so 
slo\\r  was  the  movement,  that  the  whole  quay  of  the 
Louvre  was  black  with  swarming  masses. 

But,  all  -unmindfLd,  the  dark  battalion  of  Avarrior- 
monks  moved  solemnly  on,  and  the  sweet  notes  of  the 
oriental  march  thrilled  upon  the  air;  and,  steadily  and 
sternly  on,  moved  the  tall  form  of  Jacques  de  Molai ; 
and  still  his  eye  turned  not  to  the  right  hand,  nor  to  the 
left: — not  to  tlie  right  hand,  where  frowned  the  black 
towers  of  that  sombre  pile,  whose  dungeon-walls  were, 
ere  long,  to  echo  his  unavailing  groans; — not  to  the  lelt 
hand,  where,  on  the  green  islet  of  the  Passeur  aux 
Yaches,  smiled  those  royal  gardens,  which,  ere  many 
years  had  fled,  weie  to  witness  his  unspeakable  torture! 

Steadily  and  sternly  that  iron  band  moved  on  to  its  own 
unearthly  music — and  alas!  to  its  OAvn  dreadful  doom! 
Its  own  sweet  trmnpet-mnsic  was  its  own  funeral  march  ! 
Silently —mysteriously  —  unushered  —  unknown — uuan- 


THE  TEMPLAES  IX  PARIS/ 


noimced— unexpected — improclaimed— -witLout  pageant 
or  pomp — ■witliout  ceremony — or  sliow  or  observauce, — ■ 
without  tlie  pealing  of  bells  or  the  welcoming  sliouts  of 
tlie  populace, — secretly,  at  the  dawn  of  dnv,  had  that 
dark  band  entered  the  capital,  and  advanced  into  its  very 
heart,  and  there  had  itself  heralded  its  presence,  with  its 
own  wild  music,  before  its  coming  had  been  suspected! 

-All  this  struck  strangely  on  the  minds  of  men,  and,: 
with  a  superstitious  stillness,  and  pale  faces,  and  mute 
lips,  they  gazed  on  these  world-reno\Amed  priest-soldiers 
—'•these  men,"  in  the  language  of  St.  Bernard,  ''with 
aspect  steady  and  austere,  with  Ausage  embrowned  by  the 
sun,  attired  in  steel  and  covered  with  dust," — who  had 
suddenly  appeared,  from  a  foreign  soil,  and  like  spectre 
warriors  on  spectre  steeds  moved  silently  and  sternlj'  on! 
■_  As  the  cavalcade  marched  up  the  street  of  St.  Denis, 
the  mass  of  spectators,  constantly  augmenting,  had 
become  countless.  But,  unlike  popular  throngs  upon 
other  occasions,  they  pressed  not  on  the  troop,  and  no 
shout  or.  sound  Avent  up  from  the  movdng  mass.  At  a 
distance,  respectfully  and  silently,  the  multitudes  fol- 
lowed on  ;  and,  Avhen  the  band  had  gone  out  of  the  gate 
of  St.  Denis,  and  turned  off  to  the  right  in  the  direction 
of  the  Palace  of  the  Temple,  tlie  mass  of  people,  also, 
went  and  poured  itself  OA^er  the  broad  pdains  beyond. 

ArriA'ed  at  the  embattled  Avails  of  the  gloomy  pile, 
the  drawbi'idge  fell — the  portcullis  rose, — the  ponderous 
gates  rolled  back,  as  if  by  magic,  upon  their  hinges: 
the  glittering  spear-points  and  flowing  mantles  disap- 
peared beneath  the  deep  barbican  of  the  Temple. 


158 


THE  TEMPLARS  IN  PARIS. 


And,  then,  tlie  gates  again  closed,  as  tliej  liad  opened, 
and  tlie  spectral  band  was  gone;  and,  like  a  vision, 
when  it  hath  departed,  so  seemed  to  those  avve-strnck 
oeliolders  the  strange  apparition  of  that  dark  array 
and  its  strange  disappearance. 

And,  silently  and  thoughtfully,  the  citizens  of  Paris 
went  back  to  their  homes.  But  the  scenes  of  that  memo- 
rable morning  passed  not  lightly  from  their  minds.  Nay, 
tenfold  more  deeply  now  than  ever  were  they  impressed 
with  awe  and  dread  of  that  terrible  order, — an  awe  and 
dread,  from  which,  years  afterwards,  emanated  most 
bitter  fruits. 

But  there  was  one  man,  who,  from  tlie  tall  tower  of 
tlie  Louvre,  gazed  more  anxiously  and  more  earnestly  on 
this  mystic  procession  than  all  others  beside;  and  into 
whose  mind  more  deeply  than  into  the  mind  of  any  other 
beholder  sank  its  impression. 

Tliat  man  was  Philip  Fourth  of  France;  and,  years 
afterwards,  bitter,  indeed,  were  the  fruits,  which  that 
impression  conduced  to  germinate  and  to  bring  forth! 


THE  WARPJOR-MOXKS. 


159 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

THE  AVAKRIOR-MONKS. 

OT^  tlie  evening  of  tlie  fifteenth  clay  of  July,  1099, 
Count  Godfrey  of  Bouillon  planted  the  standard 
of  the  First  Crusade  on  the  walls  of  the  Holy  City,  after 
a  Moslem  bondage  of  460  years. 

Twenty  years  passed  away.  A  soldier  of  the  cross 
still  sat  u})on  the  throne  of  Jerusalem,  and  thousands  of 
way-AVoi'n  and  penniless  pilgrims  dragged  themselves 
over  the  bui'iiing  sands  of  Palestine,  to  look  upon  tl.e 
holy  sepulchre  of  the  Lord  and  to  die.  Multitudes 
perished  on  the  route  of  famine,  disease  and  destitution; 
and  their  bleaching  skelet^r.is,  for  many  a  3^ear,  -whitenc^d 
tlie  desert;  but  still  greater  multitudes  perished  by  th.e 
scimitar  of  the  Saracen,  who  thus  ah  me  could  wreak  an 
atrocious  vengeance  on  an  execrated  foe. 

To  protect  these  pious  palmers  from  the  atrocities  of 
the  Paynim,  and  to  furnish  an  appropriate  escort  to  a 
perpetual  pilgrimage,  nine  of  the  noblest  nnd  most  valiant 
knights  of  the  Count  of  Bouillon,  in  the  j^ear  1117, 
united  themselves  by  a  vow  to  that  end;  and,  "In  honor 
of  the  sweet  iMother  of  God"^,"  they  associated  the 
duties  of  a  monk  with  those  of  a  knight  in  the  obliga- 
tions they  assumed. 

Of  these  nine  noble  •  knights,  tlie  names  of  but  two 


*  La  do cc  Mhrc  de  Dieu, 


160 


THE  WARRIOR-MONKS. 


li.ive  come  down  to  us ;  tliey  are  Geoffrey  Adelmaii  of 
St.  Omer  and  Hugh  des  Payens,  tlie  firnt  Grand  Master. 

In  1118,  Baldwin  Second,  King  of  Jerusalem,  vouch- 
safed tlie  new  order  a  retreat  within  the  Holy  Temple, 
and  gave  to  them  the  name  of  Templar  Knights.  But 
they  called  themselves  "  Poor  Fellow-soldiers  of  Christ 
and  the  Temple  of  Solomon."  The  valiant  Hugh  des 
Payens  was  chosen  their  leader,  bearing  the  title,  "  Master 
of  the  Temple;"  and,  in  1120,  Fulk,  Count  of  Anjou, 
one  of  the  most  renoAvned  warriors  of  the  nge,  Avho  had 
})lunged  into  the  crusades  that  he  might  drown  his 
anguish  for  the  loss  of  a  beloved  wife,  was  among  the 
earliest  companions  of  the  order. 

In  1128,  by  command  of  Pope  Honorius  Second,  the 
famous  St.  Bernard  of  Clairvaux  drew  up  a  system  of 
monastic  discipline  for  the  governance  of  the  new  bro- 
therhood, whicli  Avas  subsequently  confirmed  by  the 
Council  of  Troj^es. 

The  bases  of  this  Holy  Pule  Avere  the  canonical  obli- 
gations of  chastity,  poverty  and  obedience.  Each 
Templar  Avas  enjoined  to  hear  the  Holy  Olhce  through- 
out, every  day,  or,  to  repeat  thirteen  Pater  Nostcrs  for 
Matins  and  nine  for  Yespers  :  also,  to  obstain  fi-om  milk, 
meat  and  eggs  on  Friday,  and  from  flesh-meats  four  days 
of  each  Aveek ;  while  Avater  Avas  prescribed  as  their  only 
drink.  They  Avere,  also,  forbidden  to  Avear  a  crest  upon 
their  helms,  or  a  blazon  on  their  arms  or  armor: — they 
Avei'e  forbidden  to  hunt  Avith  hawk  or  hound, — to  shave 
the  beard  on  the  chin, — to  read  Avorks  of  jioetry  or 
Kmiance, — to  possess  more  than  three  horses,  or  to  be 


THE  WARRIOR -MONKS. 


161 


attended  by  more  than  one  Esquire ;  wliile  it  was  en- 
joined on  them  to  crasli  lieresj", — to  protect  pilgrims, — 
to  defend  the  cross,  and  to  combat  evermore  for  the 
glorj^  of  tLe  Lord  Supreme. 

Bj  the  primitive  Templars  these  -rigid  injunctions  are 
said  to  have  been  observed  witli  most  puuctillious  and 
painfid  exactitude, — especially  that  embodied  in  the46tli 
Capital  entitled — "  i>e  osculis  fugiendisy  So  scrupu- 
lousl}^,  indeed,  was  it  observed,  that  many  of  the  warrior- 
monks  shunned  the  kiss  of  their  own  mothers  even; 
while  some  were  so  impressed  with  the  capital  entitled— 
'•^  De  ohleciione  that  they  deemed  it  an  unpar- 

donable tempting  of  Providence  to  look  a  fair  woman 
in  the  face  !  Indeed,  it  is  related  of  "  tlie  gentle  Saint  of 
Clairvaux,"  himself,  Avho  Avas  the  author  of  these  ordi- 
nances, that,  on  one  occasion,  chancing  to  fjx  his  e3"cs  on 
a  woman,  he  instantly  took  to  liis  heels  and  plani:ed  up 
■to  his  neck  in  ice-cold  water  !  This  penance,  it  may  be 
added,  Avell-nigh  cost  the  worthy  saint  his  life! 

In  the  V'ear  1162,  Pope  Alexander  III.  issued  the  cele» 
brated  Bull  Gmne  Daimn  Opiimiim^  conferring  privileges 
and  powers  which  the  Temple  had  long  desired,  and 
which  completed  the  union  of  priest  and  warrior, — a 
union  omnipotent  in  a  superstitious  and  warlike  age. 
The  order  was,  also,  exempt  from  the  terrible  effects  of 
Interdict;  and  thousands  sought  afiiliation  as  serving 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  also  as  Donates  and  Oldates,  that 
they  might  occasionally  hear  mass  and  receive  the  sacra- 
ment, and,  should  they  die,  the  rites  of  Christian  sepul- 
ture, while  the  formidable  interdict  of  Pope  or  Prelate 


162 


THE  WARRIOR-MONKS. 


miglit  oversliadow  the  land.  Pope  Innocent  III.  declared 
himself  an  affiliated  brother  of  the  order;  and  among- 
the  Ohlaies  weie  priests  and  princes,  and  among  tlie 
sisterhood  some  of  the  purest  and  brightest  names  of 
the  age.* 

The  Master  of  the  Temple  had  rather  the  power  of  a 
Venitian  Doge,  or  a  Spartan  Prince,  than  a  Benedictine 
Prior.  He  was  allowed  four  horses  and  an  Esquire  (>f 
n(jble  bii'th.  lie  had,  also,  a  chaplain  and  two  secre- 
taries,— one  to  manage  his  Latin  correspondence  and  the 
other  his  Saracenic.  He  had,  also,  a  farrier,  a  cook,  two 
footmen,  a  Tnrcopole,  or  guard,  and  a  ^Purcoman,  or 
guide,— the  two  last,  as  their  names  intimate,  being 
Turks.  The  Statutes  declare  the  Master  to  be  in  the 
])lace  of  God,  and  that  his  commands  are  to  be  obeyed 
like  those  of  God.  Yet  the  Master  Avas  not  absolute 
in  his  rule,  hut  was  governed  by  the  majority  of  tlie 
Chapter.  General  Chapters  always  met  at  Jerusalem, 
but  were  very  rarely  convened. 

The  canonical  costume  prescribed  to  the  Templars  by 
the  Rule  of  St.  Bernard  was  a  long  white  mantle,  sym- 
bolic of  the  purity  of  their  life,  which  was  enjoined  to 
be  worn  over  tlieir  knightly  harness.  Twenty  years 
afterwards  a  red  cross,  the  sj^mbol  of  that  martyrdom 
to  which  tlie  knights  Avere  constantly  exposed,  Avas 
added  to  the  attire  by  Pope  Eugene  Third,  and  was 
worn,  either  emblazoned  on  the  left  breast,  or  cut  in  red 
cloth  on  the  left  shoulder  of  the  mantle.  The  great 
standard  prescribed  to  the  order  Avas  composed  of  linen, 

*  "Secret  Societies  of  Middle  Ages."' 


THE  WAT^RIOT^-MOXKS, 


163 


— partly  white  and  partlj^  black  in  line,  bearing  on  its 
centre  the  cross,  and  ciilled  Beausmnt^  which  Avord  was, 
also,  their  war-cry.  On  the  eve  of  battle,  the  marshal 
unfurled  the  Beauseant  in  the  name  of  Gocl,  and  nomi- 
nated ten  Templars  to  guard  it, — one  of  whom  bore  a 
second  banner  fuirled,  which  ho  was  to  displaj^  if  the  first 
went  down.  On  pain  of  expulsion,  a  Templar  could 
never  quit  the  field  so  long  as  the  banner  of  liis  order 
waved.  And,  when  the  red  ci'oss  fell,  he  was  to  rally  to 
the  ivhite  ;  and,  wdien  that  Avas  gone,  he  Avas  to  join  any 
Christian  banner  yet  to  be  seen  on  the  field  ;  and,  when 
all  had  disappeared,  he  might  then  slowly  retreat, — if  so 
ordered  by  his  superior. 

The  20th  Capital  of  the  Holy  Rule,  prescribing  the 
banner,  assigns  the  significance  of  its  colors  and  appella- 
tion to  be  this: — "Because  the  poor  companions  shall 
be  fair  and  favorable  to  Christ's  friends,  and  black  and 
terrible  to  his  foes."  It  bore  as  a  device  the  cross  ot  tlio 
order,  witli  the  inscription — "^Von  nobis ^  Domine^  non 
ncMs^  sed  tuo  nomine  da  gloriamy  It  Avas,  also,  enjoined 
that  Avheresoever  the  Templars  should  go  a  portable 
chapel  should  accompany  them,  and  that  their  religious 
Avorship  should,  in  no  event  be  pretermitted.  So  strictly 
"was  this  ordinance  observed,  that  it  is  related  of  them 
that  every  night,  during  all  the  crusades,  Avhen  they 
repaired  to  their  camps,  at  a  stated  moment,  Avdien  the 
sun  Avent  down,  the  lieralds  thrice  shouted — "Savetlie 
Holy  Sepulchre!  " — ^and  instantly  each  mailed  form  sank 
down  on  the  spot  Avliere  it  had  stood, — even  thoiigli 
the  soil  were  polluted  with  human  gore,  and  though  it 


164 


THE  WARRIOR-MONKS. 


was  y^^t  warm  and  reeking  on  tiieir  hands,  and  tliongli 
the  earth  was  burtliened  with  human  carcasses  them- 
selves bad  slain,  and  meekly,  yet  fervently,  invoked  on 
their  entei'prise  the  smile  of  Heaven ! 

^J'he  peculiar  tie  which  wedded  the  Templar  so 
strongly  to  his  order  is  not  now,  nor  has  it  ever  been, 
completely  ascertained.  Of  this  much,  however,  there 
seems  little  reason  to  doubt, — that  no  one  but  a  knight 
according  to  tlie  laws  of  chivalr\^  could  become  a  can- 
didate for  membership;  and  that  the  initiation  vow 
enjoined  an  obligation  to  obey,  during  life,  the  Grand 
3\Iaster  of  the  order, — to  defend  the  holy  city  of  Jerusa- 
lem,— to  observe  inviolate  chastity  of  person, — to  yield 
strict  and  cheerful  conipliance  with  all  usages  of  the 
order, — never  to  demit  from  the  institution  save  with 
the  consent  of  the  Grand  Master  and  a  full  chapter  of 
knights,  and  never,  under  any  provocation,  or  possibility 
of  circumstance,  to  injure  a  Templar,  or  to  sulfer  him  to 
be  injured  while  there  was  power  to  prevent.  The  can- 
didate seems,  also,  to  have  sworn  to  devote  his  discourse, 
his  arms,  his  faculties  and  his  life  to  the  defence  of  the 
Church  and  the  order;  and,  at  all  times,  when  com- 
manded by  his  superior,  to  cross  seas  to  combat  infidels; 
and,  should  he  singly  be  attacked  by  not  more  than 
thi-ee  infidel  foes,  at  one  time,  never  to  turn  his  back,  but 
to  fight  on  to  the  death.  lu  return  for  these  obligations, 
the  candidate  was  assured  of  "  bread  and  water  all  his  life, 
the  poor  clothing  of  the  order,  and  labor  and  toil  enow ; 
and,  should  lie  be  captured  in  battle  with  the  infidel, 
his  J'ansom  was  limited  to  his  capuce  and  his  girdle. 


THE  TrAP.IlIOE-:iOXKS. 


165 


.  Such,  witlibut  doubt,  were  a  fe-.v  of  tlie  oTDllgations 
-a.^umed  by  the  Templar  Kijigbts  as  a  military  order  ; 
and  it  is  equally  undoubted  that  there  existed  other 
bonds  of  unitv  more  solemn  and  more  irrefragible  than 
even  tnese.  Tnat  the  Templars  possessed  the  mysteries, 
:peTibrnied  the  ceremonies,  and  inculcated  the  duties  of 
.that  high  iMasonic  order  o:' the  present  day  vrhich  bears 
their  name  is  not  certainlj-  known,  altijough  it  is  more 
.than  probable.  The  best  writers  on  iMasoury  both  con- 
cede and  claimi;he  fact."^ 

But  be  this  as  it  mi  v.  never  did  a  community  increase 
more  rapidly  in  power,  in  numbers  and  in  celebrity, 
than  did  that  of  the  chevaliers  of  the  Temple,  during  the 
nrst  century  of  its  existence.  In  the  entliusiastic  lan- 
guage of  a  chronicler  of  the  times. — All  Chnstendom 
res  junded  with  the  chivalric  deeds  of  the  Soldiers  of  the 
Cross.  Princes  supphicated  to  be  buried  in  the  habit  and 
harness  of  these  warrior-monks,  and  kings  were  proud 
to  be  enrolled  under  their  triumphant  standard.^' 

Distinction  awaited  the  Templar  everywhere,  and  all 
were  eager  to  do  him  reverence.  Godfrey  of  St.  Omer 
pre-sented  the  order  with  all  his  possessions,  and  many 
riemish  gentlemen  imitated  his  example,  illenry  First 
of  England  made  the  order  manv  s^ilendid  presents,  and 
the  Emperor  Ljthaire.  in  113'"».  bestowed  UT->nn  it  a  lar2'e 

*Lavrr:e  .snys:— "W.?  know  tint  the  Knislit  T^'iuplars  not  only  possessed 
tlie  mysteries,  but  performed  the  ceremonies,  and  inculcated  ilie  duties,  ot 
Free  iiasous."  The  dissolution  of  the  ord^^r  he  attrilnire-;.  in  pan,  to  tiie  dis- 
covers- of  th!s  f:ict,  and  ts-aces  the  reception  of  the  Masonic  mysrerie^-  to  i  he 
Svriac  fraternity  of  tlie  Druses,  which,  at  the  era  of  the  Crusades,  and  loni^ 
after,  held  their  seat  on  Mount  Libanus,  and  there  iniriared  the  early  Teni- 
-plars  while  in  Palestine.  We  also  learn  that,  in  the  reigr.  of  Henry  .<eco!:d 
of  Enarland.  the  ^Masonic  lodges  in  that  realm  were  under  sup'^rinteiidance  of 
f!ie  Gfand  Chapter^tf  Templar  Kniglits  :  an.i  that,  in  th<-  year  1155.  itempk.yed 
tiicu  iu  the  erection  of  the  Temple,  in  Fle  ;l  Street.  L  jmiou. 


166 


THE  WARRIOR-MONKS. 


part  of  liis  patrimony  of  Suppliuburgo  Kaymoncl  Ber- 
enger,  the  aged  Count  of  Provence,  entered  tLe  Temple 
House  of  Barcelona ;  and,  resigning  Ids  govei'nment, 
sent  the  richest  proceeds  of  liis  estates  to  his  brethren  in 
the  Hoi  J  Land.  Alphonse  of  A  r  agon  and  Navarre,  the 
hero  of  tli'rty  battles  against  the  Moors,  bequeathed  to  tlie 
order  his  throne,  and  Liondiearted  Kichard  of  England, 
"when  about  returning  to  Enrope  from  the  East,  assumed 
the  Templar-garb  for  safety  from  his  foes,  among  whom, 
it  is  said,  "were  numbered  Templar  Knights  themselves  ; 
while  his  brother  John  was  ever  a  warm  patron  of  tl;e 
order,  and,  like  other  monarchs  of  the  age,  committed  all 
his  treasures  to  the  safedvceping  of  the  Temple  Hcuse 
in  London, — a  trust  never  known  in  any  instance  to  have 
been  betraj^ed. 

From  the  ]^criod  of  tho  commencement  of  tlie  Second 
Crusade  to  the  close  of  the  JSTinth,- — a  space  of  more 
than  one  hundred  years,-— the  career  of  the  Knights 
Templar  has  no  rival  for  brilliancy  in  the  annals  of 
Europe.  During  all  that  terrible  conflict  between  the 
crescent  a:xl  the  cross,  this  order  Avas  ever  in  the  van  of 
the  fight.  Beneath  the  walls  of  Ascalon  and  Tj-re, — of 
Ptolemais  and  Jerusalem ;  on  the  plains  of  Tiberias ;  on 
the  barren  sea-coast  of  Gaza  upon  that  fatal  eve  of  St. 
Luke,  when,  out  of  thousands  of  Templars  engaged,  but 
thirty  survived; — on  the  sacred  banks  of  the  Jordan 
when  its  stream  ran  blood,  and  a  caj^tive  Grand  Master 
chose  death  rather  than  ransom ;  at  C^esarea,  and  Jaffa 
and  Damietta,  and  Tripoli ;  before  the  castle  of  Eich- 
lioru  where  a  Grand  Prior  with  1700  men  lay  slain  when 


THE  wareior-:monks. 


167 


night  closed  the  conflict;  at  the  brook  Kishon,  wlicre 
140  knights  encountered  7,000  Moslems,  and  refusing 
all  quarter  were  cut  off  to  a  man, — the  Marshal  of  the 
Temple,  the  heroic  De  !Mailly,  falhng  last;  at  the  fatal 
fight  of  Hittin,  where  80,000  Christians  fell,  and  the 
Latin  power  in  the  East  was  broken  forever,  and  where, 
to  a  man,  the  Templar  captives  refused  their  lives  to 
Saladin  at  the  price  of  their  faith,  and  only  Gerard  do 
Eidefort.  their  Master,  was  spared;  at  the  storming  cf 
Massonra,  where  but  three  Templars  sm'vived  from  a 
host;  at  the  Tower  of  Saphad,  where  thousands  v:cvq 
massacred  rather  than  I'cnounce  their  faith ;  and,  flnallj', 
in  the  fortilace  of  Acre,  when  three  hundred  knights — ■ 
a  whole  Chapter  I  with  their  Master  at  their  head — were 
slaughtered  in  a  hopeless  defence  of  female  virtue 
against  Paynim  treachery  and  lust, — everywhere  these 
noble  and  heroic  men  were  champions  of  chivalry  and 
the  crocs. 

At  length  the  Christian  war-cry  ceased  to  bo  heard 
on  the  shores  of  Palestine.  The  conflict  of  two  cen- 
turies terminated  in  blood,  and  a  mournful  silence 
reigned  along  that  coast,  which,  for  j-ears,  had  resounded 
with  the  clash  of  arms,"^ 

The  few  surviAung  Templars  retired,  at  first,  to 
Limisso,  in  the  Island  of  Cyprus,  but  shortly  after 
returned  to  Europe,  and  sought  an  asylum  in  the  rich 
and  numerous  Commanderies,  Priories,  or  Preceptories 
of  the  order,  which  existed  in  every  kiugclom  on  the 
continent,  as  well  as  in  England,  Ireland  and  Scotlaud. 


*  ruUer. 


168 


THE  WARRIOR- MONKS. 


In  all  Europe,  indeed,  was  the  order  oslablislied,  and 
everywhere  bad  it  "  churches,  cliapels,  titlies,  farms, 
villages,  mills,  rights  of  pasturage,  of  fishing,  of  venery, 
and  of  wood;  and,  in  many  pLaces,  tlie  right,  also,  of 
holding  and  of  receiving  tolls  at  annual  fairs.  The 
number  of  their  preceptories  was,  at  the  least,  9.000,  and 
their  annual  income  about  six  millions  of  pounds  ster- 
ling! In  the  early  part  of  the  Thirteenth  Century,  notr 
withstanding  their  losses  in  the  East  from  the  conquests 
of  Saladin,  their  estates  in  Western  Europe  were  some 
seven  or  eight  thousand  in  number.  Lords  of  immense 
estates  and  countless  revenues, — descendants  of  the 
noblest  houses  in  Christendom, — uniting  the  most  hon- 
ored of  secular  and  ecclesiastical  characters, — ^^viewed  as 
the  chosen  champions  of  Christ  and  the  flower  of 
knighthood, — what  wonder  that,  in  the  darkest  centuries 
of  an  age  of  darkness,  they  fell  into  luxury  and  pride, 
and  became  the  object  of  jealousy  to  both  laity  and 
priesthood,  and  .of  .  .cupidity  and  dread  to  an  avaricious 
and  perfidious  monarch.  Instances  of  that  pride  of 
power  exhibited  by  the  Templars  are  not  few.  When 
Henry  III.  of  England,  in  1252,  threatened  to  recall  the 
privileges  so  profusely  and  rashly  given  the  order,  the 
.Grand  Piior  made  the  memorable  reply, — "Do  justice, 
oh,  King,  and  thou  wilt  reign!  Infringe  it  and  thou 
art  no  more  a  Kino;!" 

By  the  union  Avith  the  order  of  such  multitudes  of 
nobles  and  princes,  whose  vast  possessions  passed,  by 
tneir  death  on  the  battle-field,  or  elsewhere,  into  the 
com.mon  fund,  the  wealth  of  these  preceptories  had 


THE  WARRIOR -MONKS. 


169 


hecome,  in  the  long  lapse  of  two  liiindred  )^ears,  incredi- 
ble and  almost  incalculable.  And,  with  the  possession 
of  these  untold  riches,  no  wonder  that  luxury  and  corrup- 
tion ahso  crept  in;  and  that  the  battle-scarred  heroes,  who, 
on  the  plains  of  Palestine,  had,  with  religious  severity, 
remembered  every  vow,  should,  for  a  season,  amid  the 
opulence  and  security  of  peace  and  pleasure,  have  for- 
gotten them  all ; — all  vows  save  one, — obedience  ; — 
obedience  to  the  mandate  of  their  Master,  wherever 
heard,  however  received,  and  whatsoever  its  import! 
"They  go  and  come,"  wrote  the  Abbot  of  Clairvaux, 
"  at  a  sign  from  their  Master.  There  is  with  them  no 
respect  of  persons.  The  best,  not  the  noblest,  are  most 
highly  regarded.  They  are  mostly  to  be  seen  with  dis- 
ordered hair  and  covered  with  dust,  brown  from  their 
corselets  and  the  heat  of  the  sun.  They  go  to  war  armed 
within  with  faith,  and  without  with  iron,  but  never 
adorned  with  gold,  wishing  rather  to  excite  fear  than 
desire  for  booty.  Hence,  one  of  them  has  often  put  a 
thousand,  and  two  of  them  ten  thousand,  to  flight. 
Thev  are  gentler  than  lambs  and  gi'immer  than  lions; 
they  have  the  mildness  of  monks  and  tlie  valour  of  the 
knight.  It  is  the  Lord's  doing,  and  it  is  wonderful  in 
our  eyes ! " 

"They  are  the  first  to  advance,"  writes  the  Cardinal 
of  Yitry,  in  the  early  part  of  the  IStli  Centuiy,  "and  the 
last  to  retreat.  They  ask  not  Jioio  many  is  the  foe,  but 
tvhere  is  he.  Lions  in  war, — lambs  at  home:  rugged 
wai'riors  on  the  held^ — jnonks  and  eremites  in  the 
church." 


170 


TFTE  \rARRIOR-MOXKS. 


"To  narrate  the  exploits  of  the  Temple,"  says  a 
modern  writer,  "  would  be  to  chi'oiiiele  the  crusades;  for 
never  was  there  a  conflict  with  the  Infidel  in  which  the 
chivahy  of  that  order  bore  not  a  conspicuous  part. 
I^heir  war-cry  ever  I'ose  in  the  thickest  of  the  fray,  and 
never  did  Beauseant  weaver  or  retreat."'*'  Never,  too, 
did  the  Templar  abjure  his  faith,  whatever  might  be  the 
irregularities  of  his  life;  and  Robert  of  St.  Albans  is  tlie 
only  name  on  record  of  apostacy  from  the  order,  or  of 
alliance  with  the  infidel  foe. 

It  was  in  1298, — four  years  after  the  final  retreat  from 
the  shores  of  Asia, — that  Jacques  de  Molai,  a  member 
of  a  noble  family  of  Burgundy,  a  native  of  Besan^on  in 
the  Franche  Comte,  and  v/ho,  for  more  than  thirty  years 
a  Templar,  had  been  among  the  most  renowned  of  the 
heroes  of  the  order  in  Palestine,  was  unanimously 
chosen  chief,  while  still  absent  from  Cyprus  on  a  hostile 
shore;  and  it  was  nearly  ten  years  after  this  event  that, 
in  unquestioning  obedience  to  the  mandate  of  his  Spirit- 
ual Supreme,  ho  entered  Paris.f  It  was,  probably,  his 
purpose  to  make  the  capital  of  France  the  future  scat 
of  the  order;  for,  agreeably  to  the  suggestion  of  the 
Pontiff,  he  not  only  bore  thither  vast  sums  of  money 
in  his  train,  amounting  to  150,000  Florins  in  gold,  and  a 
quantity  of  silver  coin  perfectly  countless,— certainly 
uncounted,  but,  also,  all  the  standards,  trophies,  records, 
regalia,  reliques,  furniture  and  paraphernalia  of  the 
order. 

*  "Secret  Societies  of  tlie  Middle  Ages." 

t  De  Molai,  wlien  l;ist  in  Paris,  in  1297,  held  at  the  baptismal  font  KoLert 
IV.,  a  sou  of  rijilij,  who  died  Auiiust,  U'08. 


THE  DUXGEOX  OF  THE  GRXN'D  CHATELET.  171 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  DUXGEOX  OF  THE  GRAND  CHATELET. 

IX  the  Dark  Ages,  large  edifices  were  built  with  great 
soliditr.  and  were,  sometimes,  whole  centuries  iu 
course  oF  erection.  But,  then,  they  lasted  whole  cen- 
turies.— whole  centuries  even  after  their  builders  were 
dust,  and  thev  ahl  of  them  served  a  two  or  tlireeTold 
purpose,  at  least.  A  cathedral  was,  also,  a  cemetery. — 
a  convent  was  a  castle. — a  palace,  a  prison, — a  tower,  a 
tribunal :  and  sometimes  all  were  united  within  the  samo 
massive  walls  of  stone. 

There  were  many  such  structures  in  th.e  Paris  of  the 
Fourteenth  Century.  TliC  Louvre  was  a  palace  and  a 
prison ;  —Xotre  Dame  a  cathedral  and  a  cemetery:  — the 
Temple  a  convent  and  a  castle; — the  Palace  of  Justice 
a  tribunal  and  a  donjon-lvcep  : — whiie  the  Grand  and 
Petit  Chatelets,  the  citadel  of  Yincennes,  and  tlie  ]v[or:- 
astery  of  the  Temple  itself,  as  well  as  the  Abbeys,  and 
Churches,  and  all  the  other  great  structures,  had  their 
dungeons  and  cells.  Tne  Tournells,  the  Bastille,  the 
iUotel  de  Tilie. — all  of  tliem  of  subseqaent  construction, 
— were  each  supplied  with  the  same  convenitiices ;  to 
say  nothing  of  the  Hotels  of  Pol,  and  Cluny,  and  Xesle, 
or  the  Lorjis  of  Xevers,  or  Pome,  or  Pheims. 

On  the  morning  of  tlie  fifth  day  of  April,  1307.  two 
men  who  were  buried  in  the  duniieons  of  the  Grand 
11 


172       THE  rUNG|:ON  OF  THE  GRAND  CHATELET.; 


Cliatelet  were  roused  from  tlieir  slumbers  by  the  wild 
and  piercing  notes  of  tlie  trampet-music  of  the  Templars. 

One  of  these  men  was  somewhat  advanced  in  years, 
and,  for  a  long  ser"es  of  heinous  offences  having  been 
condemned  by  the  Provost  of  Paris  to  die,  now  awaited 
a  most  merited  doom.  His  name  was  Sqnin  de  Florian,"^ 
and,  by  birth,  he  was  a  native  of  tlie  village  of  Eeziers, 
in  the  Department  of  Herault,  in  the  ancient  Province 
of  Languedoc. 

Tlie  other  prisoner,  Avho  was  doomed  to  the  same  fate, 
for  similar  enormities,  was  a  mn.ch  younger  man  in  years,, 
though  hardly  less  matured  in  villainy  than  his  com- 
paiiion.    His  name  was  'NoSo  Dei,f  and  by  birth  he  was 
an  Italian  of  the  city  of  Florence. 

Each  of  these  men  bore  upon  his  countenance  the 
marks  of  crime  as' inefcaceably  and  as  unmistakably  as 
in  the  record  of  his  career;  and  that,  too,  without  one 
solitary  line,  or  feature,  or  trait,  to  redeem  it.  Yet, 
strange  to  say,  these  brutal  men  clung  to  that  life  which 
each  had  so  lightly  regarded  in  others,  and  had  each  a 
thousand  times  justly  forfeited  in  the  sight  of  Heaven 
and  of  man,  with  all  the  terrible  tenacity  of  that  species 
of  reptile  existence,  which,  though  the  body  is  cut  into 
a  dozen  sections,  in  each  section  is  said  to  retain  all  its 
original  vitality. 

"Ha!  Noffo ! "  exclaimed  Do  Florlan,  whom  the 
trumpets  of  the  Templars,  as  they  were  crossing  the 
Pont  au  Changeurs^  together  with  the  tramp  of  hoofs, 

*0r,  Squin  de  Flexian. 

t "  A  man,"  says,  Villani,  "  full  Qf  iniquity." 


THE  LUXGEOX  OF  THE.  GEAXD  CHATELET.  173.: 


upon  tlie  bridge,  liad  first  aroused — '-TVliat  sounds  are 
those?"' 

^  ''Xo — no  !  unhand  nie!"'  cried  tlie  slumbering  villain, 
struggling  in  b:s  troubled  sleep.  '"I  tcil  you  tlie  hour 
Lasn't  come!    I  ico/it  die  I — I  T^-on't  die  ; 

■  And  ^^dtli  an  imprecation  whicli  might  have  shaken 
the  massive  dungeon  walls  to  their  centre,  he  sprang  to 
liis  feet  in  an  attitude  of  defiance. 

''There — there — don"t  be  a  fool,  my  boy!"  said  De 
Florian.  scornfully.  '"Ihn  not  the  Provost,  thank  God! 
Your  hour  hasn't  quite  come;  it  is  tvo  daj^s  off,  at  least. 
Do  you  liear  that  strange  music?"' 

Tiie  Florentine  pressed  his  hand  to  his  damp  forehead 
and  listened. 

VTell — do  you  hear  the  trumpets?  ''  asked  De  Florian- 
again,  after  a  prolonged  silence. 

'•I  do,"'  Avas  the  low  answer  as  the  young  man  still 
listened  with  absorbed  attention. 

''It  is  a  strange  air  they  ph\v,''  said  the  other.  "Did 
you  ever  hear  that  air  before?  " 

"Often,"'  was  the  quick  answer. 

'■  And  what  is  it?  " 
=  "The  battle- step  of  the  Temph^.rs." 

'"The  Tempiars  I  ■■  cried  De  Florian.  '"It  is  a  little 
singular  that  an  order  so  distrusted  b}^  the  King  of 
France  as  that  of  the  Templar  Knights  should  enter 
his  capital  with  a  battle-marcli  I  " 

'•It  is/'  said  tlie  Italian,  after  a  pause. 

"I  wish  I  knew  the  secrets  of  these  Templars," 
returned  De  Florian.  sinking  listlessly  on  his  heap  of 
dirty  straw  and  yawning. 


174       THE  DUNGEON  OF  THE  GRAND  CHATELET. 


"And  wLj?" 

'^  Why?  Because  I  would  reveal  tliem  to  the  King, 
and  save  myself  from  tlie  gibbet." 

The  Florentine  shuddeTed,  but  was  silent,  and  still 
listened  to  tlie  music  of  the  Templars  as  it  died  away. 

"In  two  days  we  shall  be  dancing  on  nothing  in  the 
Place-St.  Jean-en-Greve,  unless  a  miracle  is  vouchsafed 
to  save  us,"  continued  the  old  man.  "And  I  hardly 
think  it  will  be." 

"Do  you  know  that  I — that  I  am  a  Templar!"  sud- 
denly faltered  the  Florentine. 

"  You,  a  Templar!"  laughed  the  old  man,  scornfully. 

"Yes,  a  Templar,"  was  the  answer. 

"And  if  you  are  a  Templar,  how  came  you  here, 
pray  ?  "    "And  why  do  you  remain  here  ?  " 

"I  was  a  Templar,"  replied  the  other,  humbly. 

"Eeally?" 

"  Eeally ! " 

"  Wasf    And  why  are  you  not  now  ?  " 
The  Florentine  was  silent. 

"I  say,  if  you  were  once  a  Templar,  why  are  you  not 
noio  a  Templar?  "  asked  De  Florian,  contemptuously. 

"  I  was  expelled  fi'om  the  order,  and  doomed  to  per- 
petual imprisonment,  but  escaped." 

"  Ila ! "  cried  the  other,  rising  partially  to  his  feet. 

And,  for  some  moments,  both  men  continued  silent  as 
if  buried  in  thought. 

"My  young  friend,"  at  length  said  De  Florian,  gravely, 
breaking  the  deep  stillness  of  tlie  dungeou  "do  you 
know  tliat  our  fate  is  inevitable?" 


THE  DUNGEON  OF  THE  GKAND  CHATELET.  175 


The  Italian  nodded,  but  spake  not. 
''Have  you  do  wish  to  confess  your  sins  before  you 
die?" 

"  No  confessor  will  be  granted  us,"  replied  tlie  Flor- 
entine, bitterly. 

"Most  true.   But  may  we  not  confess  to  each  other?" 

''We  may,"  said  the  3^oung  man,  after  a  pause,  w^hile 
a  strange  smile  passed  over  his  corpse-like  coimtenance. 
And  I,  being  the  younger,  must  begin,  I  suppose." 

*' Proceed,  then,"  said  De  Florian,  with  the  same  sig- 
nificant smile  as  his  companion. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  the  other,  thoughtfully.  "In  the 
year  1282,  at  Florence,  I  robbed  my  father  of  sixty  be- 
zants, all  he  had,  old  fellow,  to  comfort  his  declining 
years, — and  then  I  fled.  At  Mantua,  in  1284,  I  stabbed 
a  rival  in  love,  and  again  fled,  and,  on  my  route  to  Bres- 
cia, met  a  traveller  the  same  night,  and  killed  him  for 
his  gold.  At  Brescia,  I  ravished  a  nun  of  the  Convent 
of  St.  Agnes,  and  then  dashed  her  brains  out.  At  Rome, 
in, — let  me  see, — yes,  it  was  in  1283,  I  poisoned  three 
cardinals  for  the  Pope,  at  fifty  florins  each, — and  cheap 
enough  it  was  1  I  have  received  as  much  for  a  simple 
friar  1" 

"But  the  Templars  ?  "  interrupted  De  Florian. 

"Oh,  I'm  coming  to  the  Templars.  Don't  hurrj^  me. 
I  must  make  a  clean  bosom  of  it,  you  know.  In  1290, 1 
betook  me  to  the  siege  of  St.  Jean  d'Acre,  and  fought  so 
like  a  devil,  beneath  its  walls,  that  I  Avas  made  a  knight, 
by  the  accolade  of  Peter  de  Beaujeu,  Grand  Master  of  the 
Templars,  himself.    I  was  in  the  Tower  of  the  Temple, 


176       THE  DUNGEON  OF  THE  GRAND  CHATELET. 


wlien  it  fell,  burying  tliree  hundred  of  tlie  order  under  its 
ruins,  together  with  Moslems,  numberless.  Afterwards  I 
was  in  the  Convent  of  St.  Clare,  where,  as  you  have 
heard,  the  nuns  cut  off  their  noses  and  gashed  their 
cheeks  to  render  themselves  revolting  to  their  Infidel 
invaders.  Well,  they  succeeded.  Their  outrageous 
virtue  was  rewarded  by  instant  martyrdom  at  the 
hands  of  their  captors." 

And  the  villain  laughed  loudly,  highly  amwsed  at  the 
reminiscence,  for  some  moments. 

"  But  the  Templars  ?  "  again  asked  De  Florian. 

"  Oh,  the  Templars.  Well,  after  the  fall  of  Acre,  the 
whole  order, — a  small  remnant  only  it  was — repaired  to 
Cyprus,  and  there,  in  1294,  I  became  a  member." 

"And  then  was  expelled?" 

"  In  1295, .  Well,  there  was  another  nun  in  the  case." 

''And  the  secrets — the  mysteries  of  the  order  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that's  quite  a  different  thing.  Old  man,  were  I 
to  whisper  to  you  the  mysteries  of  the  Tei^iple,  even  in 
the  depths  of  this  dark  old  dungeon,  it  would  cost  me 
my  life  by  torture  ! " 

"Your  life  I"  laughed  De  Florian.  "It  could  hardly 
cost  you  that;  your  life  is  bought  and  sold  already,  if  I 
mistake  not.  The  price  is  paid  and  in  forty-eight 
hours  the  purchase  will  be  delivered!" 

Noffo  Dei  folded  his  arms  on  his  breast,  and  paced  the 
narrow  limits  of  the  dark  dungeon  in  silence. 

"Come — come — finish  your  confession!"  at  length 
exclaimed  De  Florian.  "  Our  time  is  short.  I  want  to 
begin  mine.    Tell  me.  all  -  about  4lio  Templars :— you 


THE  DUXGEOX  OF  THE  GEAXD  CHATELET.  177 


certain!)^  owe  tliem  no  love  anj^Low,  after  tlieir  treatment 
of  3^ou,  nor  allegiance  either.  Ancl,  as  to  any  sncli  reve- 
lation costing  yoLi  jowy  life,  I  am  tliinking  it  would  be 
miicli  more  likely  to  save  it — ancl  mine,  too  !  " 

"  Ha ! "  cried  the  apostate  Templar,  with  a  start. 
"  You  are  right,"  he  added,  slowly. 

AYell,  then,  let  me  act  the  ghostly  father,  and  do  3"0U 
answer  the  questions  I  shall  propose,  truly  and  faithfullj^, 
on  your  souhs  salvation.  Such  a  sinner  as  you.  have 
beeu  needs  to  be  catechised,  in  order  to  refresh  his 
memory,  and  to  draw  his  numberless  villainies  out  of 
him.  It  can't  be  expected  he  should  confess  the  half  of 
his  enormities  otherwdse.    Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Proceed,"  replied  the  young  man,  with  a  sinister 
smile. 

"  Is  it  true,  then,  the  horrible  crimes  with  which  the 
Temple  is  charged  ?  "  • 
"  It  is  !  "  said  the  apostate, 

"  Is  it  trae  that  the  Novice  of  that  order  is  compelled, 
when  initiated,  to  spit  upon  the  crucifix  three  times,  and 
then  to  trample  on  it,  and  to  renounce  Christ  ?  " 

"  It  is  !  "  replied  the  apostate. 

"  Suppose  he  refuse  ?  " 
The  Templars  have  racks  !  "  w\as  the  brief  answ^er. 

"  But  in  what  did  this  custom  originate  ?  " 

"In  this  :  One  of  the  early  Grand  Masters  being  con- 
demned to  death  could  obtain  his  release  only  by  promis- 
ing the  Saracen  to  introduce  this  custom  into  his  order." 

"And  Avhat  do  the  knights  do  at  their  midnight 
meetino^s  ?  " 


178       THE  DUNGEON  OF  TKE  GRAND  CHATELET. 


"  Many  things  too  horrible  to  think  of,  much  less  to 
speak  of !  " 

"  Do  the  J  Avorship  idols  ?  " 

"  They  t(o.  There  is  a  brazen  head,  like  that  of  a 
man,  covered  with  human  skin,  and  called  Bftpliumet^ 
which  is  the  chief  idol ;  and  to  this  image  ajjostates  are 
immolated"^'." 

*'  And  does  the  Devil  ever  apjDcar  at  these  meetings  ?  " 

"  Always!" 

"  In  what  shape  ?  " 

"  In  the  shape  of  a  big  black  tom-cat,  to  which  the 
knights  all  kneel  and  pay  homage." 

De  Florian  could  but  smile  at  this  part  of  the  apos- 
tate's confession,  but  continued : 

"And  is  it  true,  that,  when  the  chaplains  of  the  order 
celebrate  mass,  they  omit  the  words  of  consecration  ?  " 

"  It  is." 

"  And  that  the  Templars  are  in  truth  disciples  of  tlie 
false  prophet,  and  have  sold  Jerusalem  to  the  Payuim? 
It  is." 

Their  professed  vows  are  obedience,  poverty  auvl 
chastity, — do  they  observe  these  vows?" 

"They  would  obey  the  Grand  Master  if  he  bade  them 
slay  ■  their  own  mothers,  or  even  tiiemselves,"  was  tue 
earnest  answer. 

"  And  as  to  poverty  ?  " 

"  The  '  Poor  Soldiers  of  Christ '  are  no  longer  j^cor, 
whatever  else  they  may  be,"  laughed  the  apostate. 

*Absui'd  as  is  this  charge  and  all  these  chaises,  tliev  were  actually  pre- 
ferred; niid  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  upou  them  the  Templais,  histoiy 
asserts,  were  uctiuilly  arraigned. 


THE  DUXGEOX  OF  I'HE  GRA^TD  CHATELET.  179 


"And  chastity?" 

"  Oh,  they  are  very  chaste  ! — they  neyer  marr}^  1  " 
replied  tlie  Florentine,  with  a  smile. 

"  Of  coiii'se  not.  To  be  a  husband  and  to  be  a  Tem- 
plar is  impossible.  But  is  it  true,  as  is  asserted,  that 
scenes  too  abominable  for  imagination  to  conceive  are 
sometimes  perpetrated  Avithin  the  secrecy  of  their 
monastic  houses  ?  " 

■'Often.  Those  houses  are  the  abode  of  every  dam° 
nable  and  abominable  sin  and  brutality,"  replied  the 
apostate. 

"Is  it  trne  that,  if  a  Templar  ever  becomes  a  father, 
the  infant  is  brought  into  a  full  chapter  of  knights,  and 
is  then  tossed  about  from  one  to  another  ranged  in  a 
circle,  until  it  expires  ?  " 

''it  is:  and,  moreover,  the  carcass  is  then  roasted,  and 
the  Templars  anoint  their  beards  with  the  fat  that  issues 
from  it." 

"And  when  a  Templar  dies,  his  body  is  burnt,  and  his 
ashes  are  mingled  with  wine,  and  drunk  bv  the  knights, 
to  make  them  more  faithful  and  intrepid,  is  it  not  so  ?  " 
asked  the  other  villain. 

"This  custom,  like  many  others  of  the  order,  Avas 
derived  from  the  infidels,"  was  the  reply.  "In  1174, 
tiiey  drank  the  ashes  of  Jacques  de  Maille,  in  order  to 
imbibe  his  unequalled  courage." 

"And,"  continued  the  inquisitor,  "one  of  the  Grand 
Masters  cemented  an  alliance  with  an  infidel  prince, 
thus, — each  permitting  the  blood  of  an  artery  to  flow 
into  the  same  bowl  j  and  then  the  sanguine  stream  being 


180        THE  DUXGEOX  OF  THE  GRAXD  CHATELET. 


mingled  witli  wine,  eacli  drank  of  it  in  sacred  libation  to 
the  other.    Was  it  not  so  ?  " 

"So  it  is  said,"  asserted  the  apostate.  "This  wns  in 
124:8  at  the  opening  of  the  Eighth  Crusade.  Saladin  was 
the  Saltan,  and  William  de  Sonnac  the  Grand  Master. 
At  all  events,  vows  are  thus  sealed  between  Templars, 
whatever  the  origin.  The  blood  spouts  from  an  arm  of 
each  into  a  skull,  and  is  then  mingled  with  wine,  and 
-drank  while  yet  warm  and  reeking !  It  is  called  '  the 
Fifth  Libation,'  and  is  the  most  inviolable  pledge  of  a 
Templar." 

"  Suppose  this  pledge  broken  ?  " 

"  That  is  utterly  impossible ! "  solemnly  replied  the 
apostate. 

"  Suppose  a  Templar,  shocked  at  the  depravity  of  the 
order,  seeks  to  withdraw  ?  " 

"  He  is  first  torn  limb  from  limb  by  the  rack,  and 
then  sacrificed  to  the  brazen  idol,  Hashbaz — his  entrails 
being  reduced  to  ashes  before  his  face." 

"  And  apostate  Templars, — those  who  betray  the  mys- 
teries of  the  order  ?  "  asked  De  Florian,  with  a  malignant 
smile, 

"  Thew  fate  would  be  too  awful  for  description," 
replied  the  Florentine.  "In  1169,  Melier,  an  Armenian 
Prince,  apostatized  and  went  over  to  the  Infidels;  and 
every  Templar  that  fell  into  his  hands  he  tortured  first, 
and  then  cut  bis  throat." 

"  And  what  was  his  own  fate  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  the  Templars  caught  him  at  last,  and  tortured 
fcim,  and  then  biu^aed  him  over  a  slow  fire  a  whole  week, 


THE  DUNGEON  OF  THE  GRAND  CHATELET.  181' 


and  finally  sprinkled  liis  ashes  into  the  waters  of  the' 
Jordan." 

"  And  have  you  no  dread  of  a  similar  doom,"  asked 
De  Florian,  with  a  hideous  smile,  after  a  protracted 
pause. 

"7.^"  exclaimed  the  Florentine,  with  a  start. 
"Youi  "  said  De  Florian. 

"I — why  I  dread  nothing,  jnst  at  present,"  was  the 
apostate's  answer,  partially  .recovering  his  hardihood, 
''save  only  the  gibbet  of  the  Place  St.  Jean-en-Greve! 
Doyo?" 

"N"o,"  was  the  replj^    _ 

In  this  and  like  horrible  converse,  aa-ain  and  asrain 
repeated,  until,  at  length,  each  of  these  infamous 
wretches  was  fully  possessed  of  all  the  foul  suggestions 
which  the  depraved  imagination  of  the  other  could  con- 
ceive, and  all  the  silly  tales  of  the  times  each  had  ever 
heard,  and  had  given  them  his  assent, — passed  the  day 
in  that  murky  dungeon. 

Til  at  night  William  Imbert,  a  monk  of  St.  Dominic, 
Confessor  of  the  King  of  France  and  General  of  the  Holy 
Office  at  Paris,  was  in  the  condemned  dungeons  of  the 
Grand  Cbatelet. 

The  next  morning,  Philip  le  Bel^  the  King,  Enguerrand 
de  Marigni,  the  Minister,  William  de  Nogaret,  the  Chan- 
cellor, Hugh  de  Chatillon,  the  Constable,  and  William  of 
Paris,  the  Grand  Inquisitor,  sat  in  solemn  conclave,  iu 
the  privy  council-chamber  of  the  Louvre. 

The  door  opened.  Squin  De  Florian  and  Koffo  Dei, 
the  apostate  Templar,  weighed  down  with  fetters,  were 


182       THE  DUNGEON  OF  THE  GRAND  CHATELET. 


brought  in  by  Henry  Capetal,  Provost  of  Paris  and 
Governor  of  the  Grand  Chatelet,  escorted  by  a  file  of 
halberdiers. 

The  Governor  and  the  guard  withdrew.  One  hour 
afterwards  they  were  recalled. 

The  manacles  were  knocked  from  the  limbs  of  the 
convicts;  and,  at  sunrise  the  next  moruing,  instead  of 
mounting  the  gibbet  of  the  Place  St.  Jean-en-Greve, 
they  were  free  and  loaded  with  gold,  and  beyond  the 
walls  of  Paris. 


THE  KING  AXD  THE  GRAND  a^IASTER.  183 


CHAPTER  XYT, 

THE  KING  AND  THE  GRAND  MASTER. 

DL'PI^N'G-  each  of  three  snccessive  years — and  nearly 
on  the  same  day  of  the  same  month  of  each  year 
• — there  was  a  roj^al  marriage  at  the  Palace  of  the 
Louvre.  Chance  what  chance  might — whether  war  or 
pestilence,  or  insurrection — there  was  no  postponement 
of  these  important  events.  Although  Philip  le  Bel  was 
in  the  very  prime  of  life,  and  was  esteemed  "  the  hand- 
somest man  in  Europe,"  and  although  his  Queen  had 
now  been  dead  for  two  years,  he  manifested  not  the 
slightest  desigTL  or  inclination  himself  to  marry  again  ; 
and  yet  he  seemed  resolved  that  all  around  him  should 
wed — happily  or  imhappily,  he  cared  not  a  rush  : — but 
wed  they  should.  It  was  in  this  way  onl}^  that  he  could 
make  them,  especially  the  ladies  of  his  Court,  subserve 
his  own  rulino'  lust — Ambition.     Thas  he  had  first 

o 

married  his  eldest  son,  Louis,  to  Margaret  of  Burgundy; 
the  next  year,  he  married  his  son  Charles  to  Blanche  of 
Artois;  and,  on  t.he  third,  his  son  Philip  to  her  sister 
Jane.  In  neither  of  these  unions,  the  second  only 
excepted,  had  the  wishes  of  the  parties  most  interested 
been  consulted  ;  and  not  one  of  them  had  proved  happy. 
But  Avhat  cared  the  King?  Did  ho  make  the  matciies 
to  make  them  happy? 

A  fourth  bridal  now  took  place,  which  gave  promise, 


184 


TH E  KING  AND  TPI E  CR AND  M AST E Ri 


at  first,  indeed,  of  some  little  nuptial  bliss  ;  but  very 
sliortl}^  proved  a  little  more  miserable,  if  possible,  than 
eitlier  of  its  predecessors^.  .  Tliis_  „w_as  the  marriage  of 
tbe  Princess  Isabella  with  Edward  of  England,  the  second 
sovereign  of  that  name,  in  that  realm. 

In  the  year  1299,  eight  years  before,  when  Edward 
was  but  thirteen  and  Isabella  but  six  years  of  age,  the 
future  union  of  these  children  was  made  an  item  in  a. 
treaty  between  their  royal  sires.  Four  years  afterwards, 
an  act  of  solemn  betrothment,  by  proxy,  ensued  ;  and,^ 
four  years  after  this,  when  the  bride  was  but  thirteen,; 
and  tlie  bridegroom  but  twenty,  the  young  victims  were 
led  to  the  altar,  and  there  yoked  for  life  ! 

The  djdng  injunction  of  Edward  the  First  to  his  son 
was  to  marry  the  daughter  of  Philip.  Froissart  tells  us 
of  another  injunction  of  the  old  monarchy  Avhich  was  this 
— that,  so  soon  as  the  breatli  had  left  his  body,  the  said 
body  should  be  boiled  in  a  cauldron,  until  the  bones  were 
denuded  of  flesh,  and  then,  ever  after,  when  the  hated 
Scots  rebelled,  and  as  army  was  led  against  them,  his 
skeleton  should  be  borne  in  the  van  of  the  fight  i^: 
This  vow  seems  not  to  have  been  so  agreeable  to  the 
taste  of  the  young  King  as  the  former,  though  attested 
by  all  the  Saints  and  by  all  the  Barons,  for  it  was  never 
fulfilled;  but,  no  sooner  had  his  father's  corpse,  bones^ 
flesh,  and  all,  been  safely  deposited  in  its  crypt  in  West- 
minster  Abbey,  than  the  young  monarch  crossed  the 
channel  to  meet  his  promised  bride,  although  his  eager 


*The  celebrated  Bruce,  of  Scottish  renown,  is  recorded  to  liave  said,  that 
he  drer.ded  more  even  the  bones  of  Edward  tlie  First,  than  Edward  the 
Second  with  all  his  hosts! 


THE  KIXG  AND  THE  GRAXD  MASTER. 


185 


i]]fatuation  is  said  by  clironiclers  to  have  cost  liim  no 
less  a  price  tlian  the  kingdom  of  Scotland. 

Never  had  the  vast  hall  of  the  Louvre  witnessed  a 
fete  more  imposing  than  that  on  the  occasion  of  this 
a]')])arently  auspicious  union.  Edward  Avas,  certainly, 
a  very  handsome  man,  unless  his  protraits  greatly 
belie  him;  and  Isabella,  (whose  precocious  charms  had 
already  gained  her  the  name  of  la  helle^  so  common 
in  her  faniily,  so  remarkable  for  personal  beauty,) 
is  distinguished  by  Froissart  as  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
women  in  the  world."^ 

"  Who,"  says  a  chronicler  of  that  splendid  bridal  fete, 
"avIio  of  all  theroj^al  and  gallant  companj^,  witnesses  of 
these  espousals,  could  have  believed  their  fatal  termina- 
tion, or  deemed  that  the  epithet,  '  She-Wolf  of  France,' 
could  ever  have  been  deserved 'by  such  a  bride  ?  " 

Yet,  so  it  was;  and  that  A^ery  husband  was  eventually 
the  victim  of  that  very  bride  and  Eoger  Mortimer,  her 
desperate  paramour! 

History  states  that  four  sovereigns,  and  as  many 
Queens,  graced  that  bridal  Avith  their  presence,  and  the 
largest  array  of  Princes  and  nobility  ever  assembled  on 
such  an  occasion  was  there. 

Of  this  brilliant  and  higli-born  throng,  nenrlv  all  the 
personages  of  our  storj^  Avere  members;  and,  althougli  a 
full  tAvelvemontli  had  passed  aAvaj^  since  that  hall  of 
St.  Louis  Avas  the  scene  of  a  similar  fete,  and  it  had,  in 
the  meantime,  Avitnessed  nox  a  few  festal  events  of  sur- 
passing splendoi*,  none  had  surpassed  this. 


*  "L'ne  des  x^liis  belles  dames  du  motide.'^ 


186  THE  KING  AND  THE  GKAXD  MASTEU. 


Philip  de  Lauiiai  was  still  the  devoted  worshipper  of 
the  Quee'2  of  Navarre;  and  nightly  still  the  solitary 
lamp  in  the  tall  Tower  of  Nesle  guided  the  solitary 
boatman  across  the  Seine.  Her  husband,  Louis,  was 
still  in  the  little  kingdom,  which  had  been  his,  since  his 
mother's  death  and  his  coronation  at  Pampeluna. 

And  Jaae,  of  Burgundy,  that  fair  young  being,  who, 
two  years  before,  in  that  very  hall,  had  been  a  most 
tmhappy  bride,  was  now  the  gayest  of  the  gay — for 
Walter  de  Launai  was  ever  at  her  side ! 

As  for  Philip  of  Poitiers  and  Charles  le  Bel,  it  is  true 
they  were  no  longer  devoted  to  the  Countess  of  Soissons, 
or  to  Madame  d'Aumale;  but  they  were  each  quite  as 
devoted  to  some  other  lady  of  the  Court,  equally  lovely 
and  equall}^  kind. 

It  is  not  a  very  easy  thing,  perhaps,  especially  in  the 
history  of  France,  to  decidedly  stigmatize  any  one  era, 
or  any  one  reign,  as  more  dissolute  than  any  other,  how  - 
ever  often  we  may  be  tempted  to  make  that  decision. 
But,  surely,  a  mere  chronicle  of  the  events  of  the  Court 
of  France,  in  the  reign  of  Philip  the  Fourth,  demon- 
strates an  extent  of  corruption  that  is  appalling.  Friar 
Maillard,  the  Eector  of  St.  Germain  I'Auxerrois,  the  chnpel 
of  the  Louvre,  rebukes  the  dissoluteness  of  the  Court 
in  a  sermon  which  has  reached  even  the  present  day, 
in  terms  of  severity  and  coarseness,  which  one  would 
hardly  suppose  any  degree  of  corruption  could  warrant. 
The  indignant  friar  winds  up  his  discourse  with  the 
vociferation — Allez  d  tous  les  diahles  I ''^  Another 


*  Go  to  the  Devil  I 


THE  K]NG  AND  THE  GRAND  MASTER. 


187 


worthy  man  urges  upon  the  ladies  of  the  Court  the 
manifest  impropriety  of  running  when  they  go  to  mass, 
and  of  exposing  tlieir  bosoms  or  arms  so  freely  as  they 
did;  and  exhorts  tliem  neither  to  swear,  nor  to  drink  too 
much,  and  to  give  up  the  habit  of  lying  altogether; 
likeAvise,  to  partake  of  the  holy  sacrament  without 
laughing,  and  not  to  soil  their  fingers  too  much  by  greedy 
eating, — the  last  injunction  being  somewhat  to  the 
purpose,  inasmuch  as  forks  were  the  invention  of  a 
subsequent  era ! 

But,  to  return: — The  star  of  that  brilliant  assemblage, 
not  even  excepting  the  young  and  lovely  bride,  was  the 
beautiful  Countess  of  Marche.  Eadiant  with  health 
and  ha})piness — fresh  as  a  soft  May  morning  in  her  mofet 
volu])taous  charms — animated  with  joy — sparkling  with 
wnt — beaming  wdth  smiles — her  transparent  ej^es  suffused 
with  the  light  of  love— her  glossy  hair  descending  in 
ni'ight  masses  to  a  bosom  white  as  alabaster,  a'nd  fluttei-- 
ing  with  the  beatings  of  its  own  happy  heart — her 
rounded  and  perfect  shape,  attired  with  that  elegant  sim- 
]}r!city  which  ever  best  sets  forth  tliose  charms  whlck 
are  the  gift  of  nature — Blanclie  of  Artois  was  the  idol  of 
ev^ery  beholder — the  adored  of  all  adorers— the  beautiful 
star  in  that  bright  galaxy,  which  every  eye  singled  out 
and  worshipped,  even  as  the  old  Chaldeans  worshipped 
the  oi-bs  of  heaven.  And  who,  to  have  gazed  upon  her 
then — that  .bi'ight  young  being — Avould,  for  an  instaiil, 
have  recognized  in  her  the  sad,  and  despairing,  and 
deserted  wnfe  she  first  a]~)peared  ? 

And  Adrian  de  Marigni,  who  w^ould  have  recalled  in 
12 


188 


THE  KING  AND  THE  GRAND  MASTER. 


his  illuminated  features  tlie  ceaseless  melancliolj  tliey 
had  once  exhibited.  Adrian  was  still  a  dweller  of  the 
Louvre,  Immediately  npon  his  retuini  from  the  Abbey 
of  Maubuisson,  and  his  union  with  the  Order  of  the 
Temple,  he  had  received  an  intimation  that  he  would 
not  rejoin'  the  army  until  further  orders;  an  intimation 
with  which  lie  not  unwillingly  complied.  Ambition,  it 
was  true,  was  strong  within  him;  but  there  was  a  pas- 
sion now  burning  at  his  heart  to  which  all  others  must 
succumb. 

The  fair  Countess  and  the  young  soldier  had  a  casual 
word  or  a  significant  smile  for  each  other  as  they  chanced 
to  meet  in  those  lighted  halls;  but  they  courted  not  each 
other's  notice  by  act.  or  phrase,  or  glance;  and  little 
could  any  one  have  dreamed,  in  all  that  splendid  throng, 
til  at  she  was  now  all  the  world  to  him  and  he  was  now 
all  the  world  to  her ! 

Yet,  alasl  alas!  it  was  even  so! 

And  Marie — the  sweet  heiress  of  Morfontaine — shG^. 
too,  Avas  the  centre  of  a  gay  circle  of  admirers,  conspicu- 
ous among  Avhom  Avas  her  most  faitliful  and  loving  ser- 
vitor, Edmond  de  Goth.  She  Avas  still,  as  ever,  surpass- 
ingly lovely;  but  there  Avas  a  feA^erish  lustre  in  lier  ej'e, 
and  a  changeless  pallor  on  Ler  cheek,  and  each  betrayed 
a  heart  ill  at  ease.  Wlien  Adrian  appronched  her,  as  he 
often  did,  she  turned  upon  him  her  large  blue  eyes  with 
a  mournful,  almost  reproachful  gaze,  and  replied  to  his 
salutation,  or  compliment,  with  tones  ot*  sadness,  Avliich 
her  merry  voice  had  never  known  before. 

At  a  late  hour  in  the  festival,  the  King  entered  the 


THE  KING  AND  THE  GEAND  MASTER. 


189 


liall,  accompanied  by  Jacques  de  Molai,  tlie  Grand  Master 
of  the  Temple,  in  earnest  converse.  Behind  tliem,  and 
in  attendance,  walked  Hugh  de  Peralde,  the  Grand  Prior 
of  France,  and  Pierre  de  Laigneville,  with  several  other 
noted  Templars,  accompanied  bj  the  Grand  Constable, 
the  Chancellor,  and  the  Minister  of  the  Realm. 

Tire  Templars  had  exchanged  their  chain-mail  for 
tunics  of  crimson  satin,  which,  closely  girded  around 
the  Avaist  by  a  belt  of  steel,  fell  in  fall  folds  to  the 
knees ;  and,  over  these,  in  snowy  whiteness,  descended 
the  flowino'  mantle  of  the  order,'  bearins;  the  broad 
red  cross  on  the  shoulder.  Ilcre  and  there  among  tlie 
throng,  in  the  saloons  or  the  gardens,  could  be  caught, 
likewise,  the  passing  glimpse  of  some  Templar's  mantle, 
who,  mindless  or  thoughtless  of  the  capital  of  good  St. 
Bernard  of  Clairvaux — "  Ut  f retires  non  conversantur  cum 
miilierihusj^  was  whispering  words  of  burning  significance 
into  some  not  unwilling  ear.  And  surely,  it  is  not  very 
wonderful  that  young  and  ardent  men,  Avho,  for  years 
had  dwelt  on  the  tented  fiold  of  Palestine,  or  within  the 
solitar}^  walls  of  Liinisso,  sliould  have  dreamed  them- 
selves in  heaven  itself,  when,  breathing  the  seductivo 
atmosphere  of  the  Louvre,  they  moved  among  its  lovely 
shapes.  ISTor  is  it  very  wonderful  that  they  should 
have  forgotten  for  a  season,  as  many,  doubtless,  did,  all 
their  vows  of  earth,  or  hopes  of  heaven;  nor  that  their 
blushing  companions  should  have  listened  with  delight, 
scarce  less  than  their  own,  to  words  of  worship  from 
the  lips  of  those  dark-browed  and  dark-bearded  men, 
with  whose  wondrous  deeds  all  Christendom  had  rung. 


190 


THE  KING  AND  THE  GRAND  MASTER. 


Immediately  upon  entering  tlie  liall,  tlie  King  advanced 
with  his  train  to  the  canopied  clais^  where  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  held  their  Court  and  received  their  guests, 
and  presented  to  the  royal  pair  the  herioc  Grand  Master 
of  the  Temple.  His  reception  by  the  King  of  England 
was  flatter aig  in  the  extreme.  lie  even  left  his  seat 
beside  the  bride,  and,  descending  the  steps  of  the  clais^ 
stood  upon  the  same  floor  with  the  warrior-monk  while 
they  conversed.*  To  the  Grand  Master's  inquiries 
respecting  his  old  fellow-soldier,  William  de  la  Moore, 
now  Grand  Prior  of  England,  Edward  replied  with 
enthusiasm;  and,  at  length,  when  the  Templar  was  about 
retiring  from  the  royal  presence,  the  King  grasped  him 
warmly  by  the  hand,  and  said : 

"By  the  rule  of  your  noble  order,  Grand  Master, 
Kings  cannot  be  Templars;  yet,  could  the  King  of  Eng- 
land refdgn  his  crown  and  his  robe,  he  would  crave  the 
Templar's  cloak  and  cap  in  preference  to  all  other 
earthly  dignity.  Grand  Master,  Edward  of  England  is 
the  friend  of  the  Templar!" 

To  these  emphatic  and  significant  words,  De  Molai 
bowed  very  low,  and  then,  with  brief  rejoinder  and 
radiant  brow,  passed  on.  The  King  of  France  bowed 
also,  and  passed  on  with  his  companion,  but  his  brow 
was  black  and  his  lips  compressed. 

"  It  hath  pleased  you,  sire,"  said  De  Molai,  after  a 
pause  of  some  continuance,  in  which  both  proceeded  in 
silence — "it  hath  pleased  you  to  transmit  to  me  two 

*  All  monarchs  conceded  ])rincely  rank  and  place  to  the  Master  of  the  Tem- 
ple; and,  ill  councils,  he  tools  precedence  of  ambassadors  and  sat  beside  the 
prelates. 


THE  KIXG  AXD  THE  GRAXD  MASTER. 


191 


documents,  desiring  counsel  as  to  the  propriety  of  iini= 
tmg  the  Order  of  the  Temple  with  tliat  of  the  nospital, 
and,  also,  as  touching  tlie  feasibility  of  again  attempting 
the  conquest  of  the  Hoi}'  Land/' 

"  And  that  counsel,  Grand  Master?  " 

"Will  to-morro\Y,  sire^  be  placed  in  your  ha^ids,"  was 
the  replj". 

"As  chief  of  the  Templar  Knights,  j^our  feelings  con- 
cur with  your  judgment,  I  suppose,  in  counselling  a 
tenth  crusade?"  said  the  King. 

De  Molai  shook  his  head. 

"Sire,  s:re!"  he  exclaimed  with  some  emphasis,  "the 
combined  armies  of  the  Cross  in  all  Christendom  can 
alone  tear  the  crescent  from  the  minarets  of  Jeru- 
salem 1 

"You  feel  assured  of  this?"  asked  Philip. 

"Sire,  I  am  certain  of  this!  The  hol}^  city  might  be 
taken,  but  it  could  not  be  retained." 

"And  do  you  think  the  opinion  of  Pope  Nicholas 
Fourth  at  all  correct  in  ascribing  the  recapture  of  Pal- 
estine to  the  incessant  feuds  of  the  rival  orders?" 

"Ah,  sire,  how  often  hath  our  glorious  Beauseant 
w^aved  fraternally  with  the  standard  of  the  White  Cross, 
on  the  self-same  blood_y  field !  "  exclaimed  the  old  Tem- 
plar, with  mournful  vehemence.  "On  the  barren  sea 
coast  of  Gaza,  upon  the  fatal  eve  of  St.  Luke,  a  Grand 
Master  of  the  Temple  and  a  Grand  Master  of  the  Hos- 
pital lay  side  by  side  in  death,  wdiile  but  thirty-three 
Templars  and  but  sixteen  White  Cross  Knights  survived 
to  tell  the  tale.   Beneath  the  walls  of  Massoura,  a  Grand 


192 


THE  KING  AND  THE  GRAND  MASTER. 


Master  of  St.  John  was  made  captive,  and  a  Grand  Mas- 
ter of  the  Temple  was  slain  by  a  thousand  wounds  after 
the  loss  of  both  eyes,  while  bat  fo-ur  Knights  of  the  II cs- 
pital  and  four  of  the  Red  Cross  survived.  At  the  siege 
of  Acre  each  order  lost  a  Master;  and  while  four  hun- 
dred Knights  of  St.  John  lay  dead  on  the  field,  but  ten 
Templars  escaped  with  life.  At  the  capture  of  Saphoury 
not  a  Templar  survived;  and  the  castle  of  Assur*  was 
defended  by  ninety  Knights  of  St.  John,  and  the  Mame- 
lukes of  Bendocar  entered  the  citadel  over  the  corpses 
of  everj^  one ! " 

"And  when,  beneath  the  walls  of  that  same  fortress 
of  Azotus,  the  rival  orders  themselves  met  in  deadly 
feud,  how  many  knights  then  survived?  " 

The  old  soldier  was  silent.  The  blood  mounted  redly 
in  his  swarthy  cheek,  and  contrasted  strongly  with  his 
snowy  beard.  Philip  referred  to  one  of  the  niost  terri- 
fic and  bloody  conflicts  that  the  annals  of  warfare  have 
recorded.  Long,  and  doubtful,  and  deadly  was  the  fight. 
At  last  victory  declared  for  the  White  Cross  Knights; 
but  they  gave  no  quarter,  as  their  rivals  asked  none,  and 
not  a  Templar  survived  the  combat ! 

"Sire,"  said  the  old  knight  meekly,  "the  knights  are 
but  men.  Rivalry  of  rank  hath  often  aiTayed  in  bloody 
feud  a  brother's  hand  against  a  brother's  life.  But  when, 
amid  their  deadliest  conflicts,  hath  there  appeared  a 
Paynim  foe,  though  exceeding  thrice  their  number, 
when  their  lances  have  not  been  harmoniously  united  for 
his  destruction? " 


*  AzutiJS. 


THE  KING  AXD  THE  GRAND  MASTER. 


193 


"Of  the  valor  of  the  knights  of  both  orders  there  can 
exist  no  doubt,''  remai'ked  PhiMp.  "  Would  that  they 
were  as  scrupulous  in  the  observance  of  their  other 
vows!" 

''Sire,  I  am  well  aware,"  returned  De  Molai  quickly, 
"  that  an  evil  report  hath  gone  abroad  of  the  soldiers  of 
the  Temple.  I  know  it  hath  been  asserted,  and  it  hath 
even  reached  mine  own  ears,  that  since  thejr  have  been 
relieved  from  the  toils  and  perils  of  the  field,  they  have 
but  too  freely  indulged  themselves  in  the  pleasures 
afforded  by  comfortable  Priories,  to  wliich  they  have  so 
long:  been  unused." 

o 

"Would  that  were  all,  Grand  Master— would  that 
were  all!  "  said  Philip,  sternlj^ 

"I  know  well,  sire,  that  it  hath  been  asserted  tlmt  the 
Templar  interprets  his  first  vow  to  mean  a  blind  ohe- 
dience  only  to  his  chief,  his  second  ovAy  pcveriy  of  living 
while  in  camp,  and  his  third  to  mean  only  chastity  of 
body  asset  forth  in  the  capital,  "  Ut  fratres  non  conversan- 
tiir  EXTRANEis  mulierihiLs^^^ — thereby  excusing  them- 
selves and  each  other  for  intrigues  and  amours  with  the 
noblest  dames  and  damsels  in  the  land.  Of  all  of  this, 
sire,  1  say,  the  uncertain  bruit  hath  reached  mine  ear; 
but  I  hioio  it  not — I  believe  it  not— It  can  not  be!" 

"  Grand  Master,  it  is  !  "  exclaimed  the  King  with  fierce, 
yet  with  apparentlj^  suppressed,  vehemence. 

TIjc  effect  of  this  was  terrible.  That  old  soldier-monk, 
who  a  thousand  times  had  braved  the  blood-billows  of 
battle,  even  as  the  cliff*  braves  the  waves  of  the  ocean, 


*  Coiu  let^uu. 


194 


THE  KING  AXD  THE  GRAND  MASTER. 


was  terrified  at  a  cliarge  like  tins  against  his  beloved 
order,  especially  when  emanating  from  such  a  source. 

"Holy  St.  Bernard!"  he  murmured,  raising  liis  eyes 
to  heaven.    "  Can  such  things  be  !  " 

"  Suoli  things  unquestionably  are,"  coldly  rejoined 
Philip.  "  The  name  of  Templar  in  France,  if  not 
throughout  all  Europe,  liath  become  identical  with, 
debauchery,  rapine,  lust,  luxury  and  every  form  of  crima 
Boire  comme  im  l^empUer"^  is  a  proverb.  I^or  is  this 
all.  Of  late  there  hath  come  to  us  knowledge  of  giult,  so 
dark  and  desperate,  within  the  Houses  of  thy  commu- 
nity, that  we  must  perforce  crave  of  you  early  interview 
at  a  place  more  fitting  than  this,  when  all  may  be  laid 
bare." 

"  Be  it  so,  be  it  so  I  "  said  De  Molai,  grasping  the  cold 
hand  of  the  King.  "  Let  me  know  all — -all — all !  And 
if, — oil— if,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  clasping  his  thin, 
and  sinewy  hands,  whicli  seemed  com[)o.sed  only  of  whip- 
cord and  bone,  and  raising  liis  flashing  eyes  to  heaven — 
"if  what  tliou  saj^est,  oh,  King,  prove  sootli ;  if  the 
crimes  thou  layest  at  the  door  of  our  order  have  been 
committed— if  the  foul  stain  of  which  thou  speakest  bfc 
indeed  eating  like  anidcer  into  our  heart — be  sure,  oh,  be 
thou  sure,  that  the  guilty  shall  not  escape!  Holy  St. 
Bernard,  the  lion  shall  be  cruslied  !  Though  he  were  a 
right  hand  or  a  right  eye — though  he  were  the  brother  of 
the  same  womb, — -though  he  were  the  noblest  of  our 
nobles — the  Avisest  of  our  counsellors — the  bravest  of  our 
Paladins — the  most  beloved  of  our  friends — tlie  most 


*  To  drink  like  a  Tejnphir. 


thp:  kixg  axd  the  guaxd  ^iastee. 


195 


powerful  of  our  magnates,  he  slia^l  feel,  Le  sball  ('eel  the 
weight  of  our  righieous  wrath  I  We  are  do  powerleas 
ruler,  oh,  King  of  France!  We,  too.  Grand  blaster  of 
ti^e  Teuiple,  have  the  power  of  li'e  and  death  I  AVe, 
too,  liave  a  jiii^sdiction,  within  \\ho  e  bourne  but  one 
power^  can  seize  from  us  our  victim  I  We,  too,  have 
our  laws,  and  our  penalties,  and  our  dungeons,  and 
c.'/^//e//f.5,  and  racks  and  tortures!  But  no — no — no — " 
continued  the  really  kinddiearted  old  man — -"  this  can 
not  be!  Our  children  ?/-(7///c/ not  thus  forget  their  tows. 
and  abuse  our  goodness  !  If  they  do  not  love  their  God 
— as,  alas!  may  indeed  be! — they  love  their  noble  order 
too  dearly  thus  to  disgrace  her — they  love  their  Master, 
who  so  loves  them,  too  devotedly  to  rend  his  lieart  by 
sr.cli  misbehavior!  Good  King,  let  me  go,  let  me  go  ! 
To  the  altar!  to  the  altar!"'  he  exclaimed,  extending 
for  a  single  instant  both  of  his  arms,  ci'ossing  his  right 
foot  over  his  lelt,  aud  inclining  his  venerable  head  to  the 
rig  lit. 

Instantly  every  Tem]dar  in  that  hall  ^vas  around  him, 
with  evident  marks  of  alarm,  and  followed  him  from  the 
a])artment  as  he  rapidly  retreated, 

^The  King  gazed  on  in  mute  astonishment.  At  length, 
he  exclaimed  : 

"  AVhat  is  my  power  to  his?"  And  slowly,  and 
Silently,  and  sadly  he  left  the  hall. 

*  *  4t 

Tlie  last  guest  had  departed.    The  music  had  ceased. 


*T]ie  Tope.  Within  the  limits  of  his  domain  tne  Grand  ^Ir.ster  w:.s 
sui)i-eme. 


196 


THE  KING  AND  THE  GRAND  MASTER. 


The  last  liglit  bad  been  extiDgiiished.  The  great  clock 
of  Notre  Dame  had  long  since  tolled  the  hour  after  mid- 
night, and  had  received  as  tribute  the  sullen  echoes  of 
all  the  lesser  clocks  of  the  capital.  The  last  lone  lamp 
had  gone  out  in  the  Tower  of  Nesle.  The  last  solitary 
boatman  had  crossed  the  Seine.  All  Paris  was  asleep 
save  her  guardians  of  the  night.  The  Louvre  was  still. 
Its  inmates  had  retired.    Perchance  all  slept. 

Not  all!  The  poor  orplian,  Marie  Morfontaine.  silent, 
sad,  wretched,  had  retreated  to  her  lonely  pillow,  but 
not  to  sleep.  Alas !  she  was  too — too  miserable.  She 
thought  of  Adrian — she  tlionght  of  the  past,  and  of  the 
present ;  and  slie  thonglit  that  his  hate,  liis  anger,  his 
scorn — anything  Avould  be  preferred  by  her  to  his  indif- 
ference.   Yet  that — that,  alas!  alone  seemed  hers! 

The  white  lisht  of  dawn  was  breakino-  over  the  towers 
and  forests  of  Yincemies.  The  chamber  of  the  poor 
heiress  of  Morfontaine  adjoined  that  of  the  lovely  Coun- 
tess of  Marche.  Often  at  night,  when  ill  or  sad,  she 
had  repaired  to  the  chamber  of  her  best  friend,  the 
Countess  ;  and  the  Countess  had  often  repaired  to  hers. 
One  seemed  always  as  mucli  alone  as  the  other,  though 
one  was  a  wife  and  the  other  a  maiden. 

Kestless,  wretched,  Marie  Morfontaine  rose  from  her 
sleepless  couch,  and  with  noiseless  steps  she  repaired 
to  the  chamber  of  her  friend  for  consolation.  As  she 
crossed  the  gallery  the  pale,  silvery  moonbeams  lighted 
her  way. 

Raising  the  curtain  which  hung  before  the  entrance, 
she  crossed  the  threshold.    All  was  silent.    Not  a  sound 


THE  KJXG  AST)  THE  GRAND  MASTER. 


197 


— not  even  a  breatliiug  coukl  be  heard.  Suddenly  a  low 
rustling  rose  near  the  coucii  of  thb  Countess.  She  stop- 
ped, she  hstened,  she  hid  herself  behind  the  tapestr}^ 
It  was  repeated,  and  the  next  moment  a  figure  glided 
past  her.  For  an  instant  the  moon  poured  fortli  her 
pure  rays  in -floods  tlirough  the  grated  casement.  She 
saw  a  form  ! — she  saw  a  face  1  Oh,  God !  it  was  Adrian 
de  iMarioiii  f 


198 


THE  REFORM. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  REFORM. 

THE  ]3eople  of  Europe,  five  Lundrecl  years  ago, 
seemed  fonder  of  amusements,  and  had  many 
more  of  tbem,  than  bow,  many  tliougli  they  now  may 
have.  There  was  a  feast  of  the  Church  ahiiost  every 
day  of  the  year;  and  every  coronation,  and  every  royal 
marr'age,  and  every  national  victory,  was  succeeded  hy 
days,  and  sometimes  by  weeks  of  general  banqueting 
and  jubilee.  Hunting  parties  and  hawking  pai'ties 
were,  also,  of  common  occurrence,  as  were,  also,  jousts 
and  tournaments ;  though  thcso  last-named  amusements 
seemed  the  peculiar  prerogative  of  the  nobility. 

For  nearly  a  fortnight  after  the  brilliant  espousals  of 
Edward  and  Isabella,  the  halls  of  the  Louvre  resounded 
with  uninterrupted  rout  and  rovel ;  and  the  royal  Tilt 
yard,  in  St.  Catharine's  Srjuare,  was  in  almost  daily 
requisition. 

The  white  mantle  of  the  Templar  was  repeatedly 
^cen  in  the  lists,  and  the  honor  of  the  Red  Cross  was 
nobly  sustained.  But  there  Avas  one  of  the  combatants 
who  seemed  victorious  over  all  comers  whomsoever, — ■ 
whether  Templar,  Hospitaler,  or  simple  knight.  His 
plate  armor  was  azure  in  hue ;  his  shield  bore  no  device, 
{ind  his  helm  no  badge,  save  a  scarf  of  pink  and  blue — 
the  colors  of  the  Coimtcss  of  Marche. 


THE  REFORM. 


199 


This  kniglit  proved  to  be  none  other  than  Adrian 
de  Marigni,  when,  upon  the  last  day  of  the  jousts,  ho 
was  compelled  to  remove  his  helmet;  and,  with 
bended  knee,  received  upon  his  brow  the  laurel  garland 
of  glory  fi'om  the  white  hands  of  the  fair  Queen  of 
-Beauty  and  Love, — Blanche  of  Artois,  the  Countess 
of  Marche. 

At  length,  the  royal  party  took  leave  for  their  own 
realm,  attended  by  two  of  the  bride's  uncles,  Charles  of 
Valois  and  Louis  of  Clermont,  brothers  of  Philip  le  Bel^ 
and  a  large  array  of  nobles,  as  guests  at  the  coronation, 
which  shortly  after  was  celebrated  with  extraordinary 
pomp  in  Westminster  Hall. 

Some  days  elapsed  after  the  departure  of  the  roj^al 
cortege,  and  the  Louvre  had  begun  to  assume  its  usual 
aspect,  when  the  Grand  Master  of  the  Templars  craved 
and  obtained  an  interview  with  the  King.  At  this 
interview,  all  the  horrible  charges  against  the  order 
were  fully  and  formally  revealed, — the  name  of  the 
apostate  Templar  alone  being  suppressed. 

Shocked, — terrified, — overwhelmed,  the  heroic  old  man 
instantly  wrote  to  the  Sovereign  Pontiff  at  Avignon,  as 
the  spiritual  head  of  the  order,  praying  the  earliest  and 
most  searching  investigation  of  the  specified  charges.* 
The  King,  also,  wrote  to  Clement,  and  despatched  as 
the  courier  of  his  missive  Ilexian  de  Beziers,  the  Prior 
of  Montfaucon,  who,  as  a  Templar,  had  once  been  sen- 


*  Cardinal  Cantilupo,  tlie  Pope's  Chamberlain,  who  liarl  Ion }r  been  a  Chap- 
lain of  the  Temple,  Is  said  to  have  made  some  disclosures  prejudicial  to  the 
order,  to  his  master,  about  the  same  time. 


200 


THE  REFORM. 


tenced  bj  the  Grand  Master  to  perpetual  imprisonment 
for  heresy  and  for  leading  a  life  scandalous  to  the  order. 

As  for  Jacques  de  Molai,  he  commenced,  at  once,  most 
vigorous  investigation  of  all  charges  against  Templars 
which  reached  him;  and  enjoined  a  most  severe  refor- 
mation of  all  irregularities  which  had  insinuated  them- 
selves into  the  order.  The  Eule  of  St.  Bernard  was 
most  rigidly  enforced.  Establishments  were  reduced, — 
indulgences  curtailed, — equipage  and  costume  shorn  of 
their  ornaments, — penance  inflicted  on  the  refractory, — 
the  discipline  of  the  Iloly  Office  administered, — the 
mode  of  life,  diet,  habit,  and  requisitions  of  the  Capitals 
strictly  enjoined,  and  the  whole  order,  under  pain  of  the 
severest  penalties  for  disobedience,  brought  back  to  its 
primitive  state  of  ascetic  monasticism ;  while  several  of 
the  members,  against  whom  charges  of  irregularity  had 
been  preferred  and  sustained,  were,  by  the  arbitrary  will 
of  the  Grand  Master,  who  was  sole  lord  of  life  and  limb 
within  the  bourne  of  his  own  domain,  with  the  assent 
of  the  chapter,  immured  in  the  "penitential  cell"  of  the 
Temple. 

It  was  in  vain  that  remonstrances  to  the  severity  of 
this  reform  and  warm  protests  arose  from  some  of  the 
elder  companions  of  the  order,  who  themselves  were, 
and  ever  had  been,  unexceptionable  patterns  of  Templar 
virtue  and  Templar  valor.  In  vain  was  it  urged  that 
the  Kule  of  St.  Bernard  applied  rather  to  the  discipline 
of  the  order  in  the  Camp  tlian  in  the  Priory,  and  that 
the  battle-scarred  soldier  merited  some  little  relaxation 
and  indulgence,  when  no  longer  in  the  field  against  a 


THE  eefce:\i. 


201 


Pavnim  fOe.    De  Molai's  sole  reply  to  eacli  and  all  these 
re]:re5entations  Avas  the  single  phrase: 
It  shall  be  so  \—J^1j,o  F  Obey  \ 

There  Avas,  also,  instituted  another  reform  in  the 
order,  ^-hich  armed  against  it  foes  whose  vengeance  ^'as 
long  felt.  This  was  enforced  by  a  statute  providing  that 
none  but  actual  knights  of  the  order,  who  had  served 
in  its  ranks,  should  be  entitled  to  its  franchises,  dis- 
tinctions, and  immunities :  or  to  wear  the  costume  or 
insignia  of  the  Temple.  Even  those  who  had  really 
done  battle  against  the  Moslem  under  the  glorious 
Beauseant.  but  Avere  not  knights,  yet,  since  tlieir  return 
to  Europe,  had  continued  to  wear  the  mantle  and  the 
cross  of  the  order.  Avere  enjoined  never  again  to  assume 
that  sacred  badge,  save  only  when  in  actual  serA'ice 
in  the  field.  To  these  inferior  brethren  Avas  assigned 
a  garb  and  cloak  of  black,  and  they  were  desigTiatecl 
AuxilUaries,  or  "  SerAung  Brothers  of  the  Temple." 

The  effect  of  an  ordinance  like  this  on  that  fierce  and 
haughty  militia,  who,  ha\ung  fought  an  hundred  battles 
on  tiie  sands  of  Palestine,  and,  all  coA'ered  vrith  scars, 
and  blackened  by  a  foreign  sun,  and,  emaciated  almost  to 
skeletons  by  incredible  toils,  had,  at  last,  few  in  number, 
and  AYorn  AAuth  fatigue,  come  home  to  enjoy  their  hard- 
AYon  glory,  and  pass  the  remnant  of  their  lives  in  peace, — ■ 
may  perhaps  be  conceived,  but  cannot  be  described. 
Aloud,  on  their  lives,  thev  dare'l  not  murmur  I  But 
their  citrses  Avere  deep — deep  :  and  the  day  Avas  unhap- 
pily drawing  nearer  than  eA^er  they  could  have  dreamed, 
when  those  curses  Avere  to  meet  a  dreadful  fulfillment  j 


202 


THE  REFORM. 


and  a  cup  of  vengeance,  fuller  than  even  tlieir  fevered 

and  burning  hearts  could  have  craved,  M^astobe  proffered 

in  mantling  fullness  of  their  lips! 

4f  *  *  *  *  * 

The  dread  discovery  of  Marie  MorfoDtaine,  on  the 
night  of  the  bridal  fete  at  the  Louvi'e,  was,  as  yet,  a  secret 
within  her  agonized  bosom;  and  of  that  discovery,  the 
guilty  parties  themselves  knew  no  more  than  all  others. 

Horror-struck,  terrified, — almost  petrified  at  the  scene 
she  beheld,  she  had  leaned  against  the  cold  wall  of  stone 
beneath  the  tapestry  for  support,  and  had  pressed  her 
Land  upon  her  heart  to  still  its  throbbings.  At  length, 
she  recovered  strength  to  reticent, — to  retreat,  more 
stealthily  even  than  she  had  come,  back  to  her  own 
apartment;  bat  not,  alas!  until  her  terrible  apprehen- 
sions had  been  confirmed  beyond  the  possibility — beyond 
the  hope  of  a  doubt! 

The  first  emotions  of  Marie  Morfontaine,  when  she 
again  found  herself  upon  her  lonely  couch,  were  those 
of  grief — grief  irrepressible, — unspeakable, — overwhelm- 
ing. The  terror  inspired  by  the  scene  she  had  witnessed 
was  gone;  but,  oh,  the  agony  of  teai's  that  succeeded! 
That  he — he,  her  first,  her  last,  her  only  love, — he, 
whom  more  than  even  her  Maker  she  had  worshipped, — 
he,  who,  for  long  years,  from  her  earliest  girlhood,  had 
been  the  idol  of  her  imagination, — the  object  of  her 
thoughts  by  day,  and  of  her  dreams  by  night, — whose 
dear  image  she  so  often  conjured  up  in  lier  fancy,  when 
he  was  far  away  amid  peril  and  blood,  when  bowing  at 
the  altar  of  her  faith  ;  and  for  whom  she  had  so  often — 


THE  REFCRM. 


203 


so  fervently  prayed :— that  lie,  for  wlioin  alone,  of  all 
living  men,  lier  pure  bosom  had  ever  indulged  one 
throb  of  pass'on,  and  on  Avhom,  as  tlie  husband  of  that 
bosom,  slie  bad  so  fondly  dreamed, — that  be  

And  then  ker  thoughts  revertel  to  that  lovely,  guilty 
being  who  had  seemed  her  friend  ;  and  her  heart  grew  as 
iiard  as  steel,  and  as  cold  as  ice.  Gradually,  involun- 
tarilv,  almost  unconsciously,  a.  dreadful  purpose  sprang 
up  in  her  frenzied  heart,  and  began  to  assume  shape  and 
proportion.  She  was  no  longer  a  simple,  timid,  feeble 
girl.  She  wa^  a  woman, — a  matured  woman,  with  all 
a  woman's  passions  and  all  a  woman's  powers.  A  single 
hour,  a  single  event,  a  single  thonglit,  had  wrought  the 
vast  change.  Sooner — sooner  than  he  should  be  clasped 
in  love  in  the  amis  of  another,  she  w^ould  see  that  once- 
idolized  form  dead — dead  at  her  feet ! 

The  events,  which  have  been  detail-etl,  as  succeedins^ 
the  departure  of  Edward  and  his  bride  from  Paris,  served 
to  develop  and  mature  the  secret  purpose  of  Marie  Mor- 
fontaine,  originally  vague  and  undefined,  and  to  give  it 
force  and  aim.  She  had  discovered  that  Adrian  de 
Marigni  was  a  fellow  companion  of  the  Oi'der  of  the 
Temple,  and  she  had  learned  that,  by  her  terrible  secret, 
his  libert}',  if  not  his  life,  was  forfeit.  This  Avas  enough, 
and,  as  one  no  longer  a  girl, — as  a  matured  and  injured 
Avoman, — the  power  to  conceal,  and  to  dissemble,  and  to 
revenge,  had  sud^lenlv,  even  to  her  own  amazement  and 
dismav,  become  hers  ! 
^13 


204 


THE  FAKEWELL. 


CHAPTEE  XYIII. 

THE  FAEEWELL. 

IT  was  a  soft  niglit  in  Jane.  The  full  moon  was 
beaming  high  in  Heaven,  and  pouring  her  mellow 
radiance  through  the  grated  casements  of  the  Louvre. 
The  warm  and  perfumed  breath  of  summer  stole  up 
from  the  royal  gardens  of  the  Seine,  and  danced  along 
the  gilded  rippliugs  of  its  waters. 

Alone,  in  her  chamber,  sat  Blanche  of  Artois.  She 
was  pale — very  pale ;  but  in  her  large  eye  burned  a 
gloomy,  yet  feverish  fire,  and  her  lips  were  compressed 
as  if  with  pain.  Her  beautiful  hair  was  strained  back 
from  lier  forehead,  and  lay  in  loose  masses  on  her  snowy 
shoulders.  Her  dress  was  a  robe  of  flowing  white,  con- 
fined  at  the  waist  by  sl  crimson  cor delih-e.  The  sleeves 
were  full  and,  falling  away,  disclosing  an  arm  of  ivory 
whiteness  and  exquisite  symmetry,  surpassed  only  in 
perfection  by  a  full  and  voluptuous  bosom.  Her  foot  was 
encased  in  a  slipper  of  black  velvet,  and  seemed  in  pro- 
portion hardly  that  of  a  child.  And  yet  the  figure  was 
a  woman's,  with  all  the  indescribable  charms  of  matured 
development. 

"  Why  does  he  not  come?  "  at  length  she  murmured, 
as  the  clock  of  St.  Germain  1' Auxerrois  tolled  foiih  the 
hour  of  ten.  "  For  one  whole  month  we  have  not  met! 
It  was  not  so  once  1    How  changed  he  is  !    Of  late  he 


THE  FAEETTELL. 


205 


has  even  seemed  to  avoid  me.  And.  then,  be  looks  so 
pale,  and  so  sad,  and  so  Avretched.  TThat — vliat  can 
have  caused  this  cliange  ?  To-n:gat  I  vill  know  all. 
But  vdll  Le  come?  He  promised — but  so  sadly — so 
reluctantly  I "' 

The  unhappy  voman  fell  back  on  the  couch,  and 
clasping  her  hands  across  her  forehead,  and  closing  her 
eyes,  seemed,  for  some  time,  a  prey  to  bitter  thoughts. 
Again  and  again  the  clock  of  the  Louvre  chimed  the 
quarters  as  they  passed  ;  but  she  still  remained  motion- 
less, extended  like  a  lifeless  thing  upon  the  couch. 

Suddenly,  at  length,  she  started  from  her  recumbent 
posture,  and,  sustaining  herself  with  one  hand,  pressed 
the  other  wildly  to  her  temple,  and  strained  back  the 
long  hair.  For  an  instant,  she  thus  sat ;  her  head  bent 
forward  in  the  attitude  of  listening — her  lips'  apart — - 
her  eyes  intently  fixed  upon  the  door.  The  next,  she 
had  sprung,  with  a  low  cry  of  joy,  to  her  feet,  and 
tlirown  herself  into  the  arms  of  Adrian  de  IMarigni,  who 
softly  entered. 

''Ah.  Adrian.  I  knew,  I  knew  it  was  you,""  she  mur- 
mured  in  tones  of  tenderest  devotion ;  and  again  and 
again  she  clasped  her  lover  passionately  to  her  heart. 
Fondly,  3-et  sadly,  the  embrace  was  returned. 

'*  Come  1 — come  I — come  ! '"  she  at  length  added.  And 
grasping  his  hand,  she  drew  him  to  the  couch,  on  which, 
in  rich  floods  of  effulgence,  trie  full  moon  was  nov?" 
streaming,  while  all  other  poitions  of  the  apartment  were 
in  deepest  shade. 

Seating  him  on  the  side  of  the  low  couch  where  the 


206 


THE  FAREWELL. 


moonliglit  was  brightest,  and  its  rajs  poured  full  on  his 
form,  she  threw  herself  on  her  knees  at  his  feet,  and, 
pressing  back  liis  dark  hair  from  his  forehead,  gazed 
with  intense  solicitude  into  his  face. 

Instant!;/ ,  with  dismay  and  terror,  she  started  !  And 
well  might  she  be  shocked — affrighted  at  the  dreadful 
change  she  there  beheld  !  For  a  month  these  unhappy 
be'ngs  had  hardly  met,  and  then  but  casually,  for  a 
moment;  and  now,  in  tlie  pale  moonbeams,  the  ahera- 
tion  his  aspect  and  features  had,  during  that  interval, 
undergone,  filled  her  with  dismay. 

"Adrian — Adrian!"  she  exclaimed  in  alarm,  "why 
do  you  gaze  on  me  so  strangelj^?  Why  do  you  not 
speak  to  me  ?  Why  are  3^ou  so  pale,  and  so  thin,  and 
so  haggard  ?  Oh,  you  are  ill,  you  are  ill,  and  I  have 
not  known  it !  " 

And  earnestly  and  anxiously  she  pressed  her  lips  to 
his  forehead. 

"  Why  do  you  not  speak  to  me,  Adrian?  "  she  softly 
added,  again  resuming  her  examination  of  his  counte- 
nance. There  was  something  in  its  sad  expression 
which  filled  her  with  undefined  terror  and  apprehension. 
Silently — fondly — his  dark  eyes  rested  with  mournful 
significance  on  her  pale  and  beautiful  face,  and  on  those 
glorious  orbs  which,  suffused  with  all  a  woman's  ten- 
derness, were  now  lighted  up  by  the  mild  moon  of  a 
summer's  night.  And  the  soft  night-breeze,  cooled  by 
careering  over  the  Seine,  stole  gently  in  at  the  barred 
casement,  and  fanned  her  fevered  brow. 

Adrian  de  Marigni  answered  not.    He  returned  not 


THE  FAREWELL. 


207 


tee  warm  caress — nor  the  ardent  gaze — nor  tlie  soft 
pressure  of  those  burning  hps.  Like  some  marble  image 
of  cathedi'al  aisle — inanimate — motionless — almost  ex- 
pressionless, his  eye  retained  the  same  fixed  and  change- 
less gaze,  and  his  face  the  same  colorless  hue. 

"  Adrian,"  said  the  Countess,  sadlj,  shaking  her  head, 
"  YOU  do  not  love  me  as  vou  did ! 

The  young  man  raised  his  eyes  to  Heaven.  "  TTould 
to  God  it  were  so  I  "  he  mournfully  ejaculated. 

"  Are  you  ill,  Adrian  ? "  asked  the  Countess,  anx- 
iously. 

lie  shook  his  head. 

"Has  anything  occurred  to  trouble  you?"  she 
coniinued. 

De  Marigni  shuddered,  but  was  silent. 

"/  have  not  displeased  you,  Adrian?"  she  tenderly 
asked, 

"  You  !  "  was  the  emphatic  and  quick  response,  as  if 
something  were  suggested,  which,  in  its  vejy  iiature, 
was  impossible. 

"  Then  Avhy — why  do  you  look  on  me  so  strangely — = 
so  coldly?  "  she  asked,  throwing  her  white  arms  around 
his  neck,  and  pressing  her  soft  cheek  to  his. 

She  started.  That  cheek — those  lips  were  ice.  The 
lips — the  cheek  of  a  corpse  could  not  have  been  more 
impassive. 

"  Oh,  Adrian — Adrian  !  "  she  exclaimed  in  uncontrolla- 
ble terror,  starting  to  her  feet,  "why  is  this?  AVhy  is 
it  that,  for  the  whole  month  pa.^t,  you  have  not  sought 
this  chamber,  as  you  did  before?    Why  is  it  that  you 


208 


THE  FAREWELL. 


Lbtve  constantly  striven  to  avoid  nie,  and  so  repeatedly 
declined  to  meet  me  when  I  liave  urged  ?  Why  the 
terrible  cliange  that  has  come  over  you,  not  more  in 
manner  than  in  person?  Why  are  you  so  sad,  and  so 
silent,  and  so  pale  ?  Why — oh,  why  do  you  look  so 
wretched  ?  You  never  seek  me  now  as  you  once  did. 
Either  you  love  me  no  more,  or," — and,  for  an  instant, 
her  dark  eyes  sparkled  with  fury,  and  her  voice  sank 
almost  to  a  whisper — "  you  love  another  !  " 

A  sad,  almost  reproachful,  smile  on  the  lips  of  her 
companion  was  the  only  answer. 

"Forgive — forgive  me,  Adrian,"  she  quickly  exclaimed, 
again  dropping  at  his  feet.  "  Oh,  how  could  I  doubt 
you  ?  But  tell  me — tell  me,  dearest,"  she  continued  in 
fond  and  imploring  accents;  "tell  me,  why  do  you  not 
come  to  see  me — your  Blanche — ^your  wife — as  you  did  ? 
Tell  me  why,  so  often,  at  night,  you  repair  to  the  Palace 
of  the  Temple  alone?  " 

The  young  man  gave  a  slight  start. 

"  Ah,  you  see,  I  know  all  your  movements,"  she  added, 
with  a  smile  that  died  instantly  on  her  lips.  "  Would 
you  believe  it,  Adrian — now  you  won't  be  offended  with 
me,  will  you? — would  you  believe  that  the  proud  Coun- 
tess of  Marche  had  nightly  followed  your  steps  for  whole 
weeks  past,  in  the  garb  of  a  Templar?  " 

Do  Marioni  asrain  started.    And  well  mioht  he.  He 

,00  o 

had,  indeed,  never  dreamed  of  such  devotedness. 
Blanche  of  Artois  continued: 

"That  she  had  traced  you  from  street  to  street  to  the 
gate  of  St.  Denis,  or  of  St.  Martin,  and  thence  to  the 


THE  FAEEAVELL. 


209 


ot'iIR  T\'all3  of  that  liateJ  Temple,  into  Avliicli.  in  company 
with  others,  you  mysteriously  disap}-'eareil :  and  that 
then,  all  night,  even  until  the  gray  morning's  dawn,  she 
had  watched  its  gloomy  towers,  and  the  lights  which 
fi.tted  past  its  casements,  and  listened  to  the  strange 
sounds  that  issued  from  its  portals,  when  they  chanced 
to  unfold.  And  then,  at  dawn,  when  you  again  appeared 
from  beneath  those  dark  battlements,  pale  and  haggard, 
and  exhausted,  she  had  regained  the  Louvre  before  yon, 
and  seen  you  enter  your  appartinent-^only  to  issue  again 
at  night,  again  to  repeat  your  lonel\'  visit  ? 

The  young  man  still  continued  silent. 

''Adrian — Adrian  de  l\[arigni  !  suddenly,  Avith  starts 
ling  earnestness,  exclaimed  the  Countess,  '"tell  me — tell 
me — for  I  will  know  what  do  you  at  night  in  that  awful 
pile  I  " 

De  Marig-ni  was  still  unmoved.  It  seemed  as  though, 
no  earthly  feeling  could  ever  move  him  more.  He  was 
stone — ice. 

''Aye.  but  I  ivHl  know!"  vehemently  repeated  the 
Countess,  now  tlioroughly  roused.  ''  Dark  tales  are 
abroad! — tales  which  never  would  have  sought  me,  had 
I  not  sought  them,  so  terrible  are -they  1 — dreadful  tales 
of  more  dreadful  deeds,  by  that  fearful  order,  in  that 
awful  pile  I — that  order. —  oh,  fool  I  fool  I— of  which,  at 
my  desire,  and  through  my  influence,  you  became  a 
companion ! 

De  IMarigni  shuddered,  but  spoke  not. 
A^ou  will  7iot  tell  me?  "  cried  Blanche.    "Be  it  so. 
But  be  sure — be  very  sure — I  will  know  all — all— though. 


210 


THE  FAKEWELL. 


the  rack  slioiild  tear  the  guilty  secret  from  tlie  bosoms 
of  these  human  fiends  1  Wbat! — wliat ! — do  they  think 
they  can  wreck  the  earthly  peace  of  BLanche  of  Artois 
with  impunity  ?  Do  they  thiiilv  they  can  tear  from  her 
heart  the  only  being  on  earth  she  ever  truly  loved,  and 
the  deed  go  unavenged  ?  Adiian  de  Marigni,  you  do 
not  know  me  I  I  sometimes  think,"  she  mournfully 
added,  pressing  her  white  hand  to  her  forehead,  "  that  I 
do  not  know  mj^self.  To  you,  Adrian — to  you,  I  have 
been  a  weak — a  fond — perhaps  a  guilty  woman;  jet,  am 
I — and  to  you,  now,  for  the  first  time,  do  I  avow  it — the 
]eal  Queen  of  this  realm  I  Not  one  act  does  Philip  of 
France  on  which  the  will  and  the  judgment  of  Blanche 
of  Artois  are  not  first  disked.  This  is  no  vain  boasting, 
Adrian  ;  you  do  not  think  it  so;  you  know  it  is  not  so. 
And  now,  by  this  power,  do  I  here  swear  the  destruc- 
tion of  that  hated  " 

"Blanche!"  exclaimed  De  Marigni,  with  mournful 
earnestness. 

"And  why  not? — why  not  ?"  she  rejoined  in  tones 
of  wildest  excitement.  "Oh,  God!  has  not  that  hated 
order  destroyed  me  ? — peace — love — happiness — for- 
ever !  Everything — everything  seems  plain  to  me  now. 
How  strange  I  saw  it  not  before  I  Whither  go  you, 
Adrian  de  ^Tarlgni,  at  the  hour  you  once  sought  my 
bosom  ?  Why,  now,  to  me  is  your  heart  stone  and  your 
lip  ice?  AYhy  is  that  eye,  which  once  returned  the 
glance  of  mine  with  kindred  and  sympathizing  flame,  .now 
cold  and  meaningless  in  its  gaze  as  the  eye  of  the  dead? 
Why  are  those  arms,  which  once  clasped  me  in  rapture 


THE  FAEEAVELL. 


211 


to  your  breast,  now  lifeless  and  leaden,  and  tliat  breast 
itself  as  hard  and  as  cliill  as  the  bronze  of  a  monument  ? 
And  more — infinitely  more  than  all  else  beside — why, 
oil.  wliy,  are  yon,  ni}^  own  beloved  Adrian,  the  hag- 
gard and  wretched  be  ng  joii  are?  Why  is  this?  " 
Alas!  til  ere  was  no  answer. 

"I  will  tell  you  Avhy  it  is/' continued  Blanche  of 
Artois.  My  dreadful  suspicions  have  this  night  be- 
come certainties! — my  honible  imaginings  more  horrible 
realities  !  There  are  scenes  that  transpire  within  yonder 
gloomy  walls  of  the  Templar  Knights — ^scenes  too  fear- 
ful even  for  tlie  fancy  to  depict — scenes  of  terrible, 
abominable,  unnatural  crime — orgies  of  fiends  1  orisons 
of  the  damned!  revellings  of  tlie  lost!  And  yon — vou, 
Adrian  de  Marigni,  alas!  alas! — ^through  my  own  most 
fatal  agency — through  the  agency  of  one,  who — oh,  God 
knoAVs! — would  gladly  yield  the  last  drop  of  her  blood 
for  you  [ — you  have  become  the  victim  of  that  fraternity 
of  fiends  [  And  shall  I  not  dash  asunder  those  manacles 
that  bind  ?  Shall  I  not  break  into  atonjs  those  fetters — - 
dissolve  that  dreadful  charm — send  back  those  demons 
to  the  Hell  whence  they  were  evoked,  and  level  with 
the  dust  those  black  chambers  which  have  witnessed 
their  cruelties  and  their  crimes  ?  Shall  I  not  be  avenged  ? 
Shall  I  not?  Why  shall  I  not?  Why  shall  I  not,since 
.mine  is  the  power,  sweep  that  detested  order  from  this 
realm — from  the  earth  itself?  Why  shall  I  not  swear  to 
destroy  

-  "Blanche,"  murmured  De  Marigni, in  tones  of  melan- 
choly sweetness,  "  would  you  destroy  me  F  " 


212 


THE  FAREWELL. 


^'Thee!" 

Am  not  I  a  Templar,  also  ?  " 
"  And  are  you  not  a  victim,  Adrian  ? "  asked  the 
Countess,  mournfully. 

De  Marigni  answered  not. 

"  Are  you  not^  Adrian  ? "  slie  solemnly  repeated. 
"And  am  not  I?  " 

"  Yet,  for  my  sake,  Blanclie,"  said  tlie  young  man,  "  for 
the  sake  of  one  who,  for  his  wild  love  of  you,  has  resigned 
everytliing  else  in  the  world,  and  who  now,  for  the  last 
time  "  , 

"  What !  what  say  you?  "  cried  Blanche,  in  terror. 

"Ah,  is  it  not  the  last  time?"  he  sadly  continued. 
"Blanche — Blanche — my  love — my  wife — my  own  be- 
loved Blanche — I  have  to  say  to  thee  farewell — farewell 
forever ! " 

The  Countess  gazed  a  moment  into  the  pale  face  of 
her  companion,  as  if  stupefied.  Then,  bursting  into  a 
wild  incredulous  laugh,  she  exclaimed: 

"  Oh,  no  \ — no  ! — no  ! — not  quite  so  bad  as  that^  Adrian. 
That — why,  thafs  impossible  !  God  permits  his  creatm^es, 
sometimes,  to  become  very  wretched,  because,  doubtless, 
of  their  sins;  but  he  never  would  permit  such  misery  on 
the  earth  as  thatP 

"And,  yet — and  yet,  my  own  Blanche,"  returned 
Adrian,  in  tones  of  heart-rending  sorrow,  clasping  her 
exquisite  form  to  his  bosom,  as  a  parent  might  clasp  a 
child — "  and  yet  it  must  be  even  so  !  A  power  mightier 
than  my  own  tears  me  from  you  !  Blanche — Blanche — 
could  all  your  menaces  have  full  accomplishment  on  the 


THE  FAREWELL. 


213 


order  you  so  liate,  I  should  not  be  free.  No  earthly 
power  can  dissolve  the  unseen  bonds  that  bind  me.  Alas  1 
not  God  himself  can  free  the  Templar  from  his  fetters! 

But  Blanche  answered  not.  Like  an  infant  hushed  to 
its  slumber,  w4iile  the  big  tear  yet  stands  undimmed 
upon  its  cheek,  and  sobs  yet  shake  its  innocent  bosom, 
the  beautiful  victim  clung  to  tbe  form  of  him  whom 
more  than  all  the  world  she  loved.  AYhatever  the  past 
had  been— whatever  the  future  might  be — she  was  now 
with  him,  she  was  in  his  arms  ;  and  the  poor  wretch 
was,  for  a  moment,  happy. 

Again  the  young  Templar  spoke. 

"I  had  hoped — oh,  I  had  believed,  that  never  again 
could  I  be  moved  by  human  joy,  or  human  grief;  by 
passion,  or  by  hope  ;  by  love,  or  by  hate.  I  had  hoped 
that  my  heart  had,  indeed,  become  stone,  as  you  have 
said,  and  my  lips  had  become  ice.  But,  alas!  it  ^5  not 
so.  We  part,  Blanche,  we  part.  I  came  only  to  say 
farewell.  For  that  only  could  I  have  come  at  all;  and 
for  your  sake  I  trusted  in  that  calmness,  that  calmness 
of  despair  into  which  I  believed  my  own  heail  was 
petrified.  Alas,  I  knew  not  my  weakness !  But  do  not 
let  us  grieve — do  not  let  us  grieve  !  Our  parting,  Blanche, 
will,  at  the  longest,  be  but  brief.  There  is  another  and 
better  world  that  this,"  continued  the  u.nhappy  man, 
raising,  resignedlj^,  his  dark  eyes  to  the  bright  heavens; 
"  and  to  this  world  we  are  surely  neither  of  us  so  wedded, 
my  Blanche,  as  to  lament  that  we  leave  it.  In  this 
world,  the  love  we  have  felt  and  shared,  however  ice 
may  have  viewed  it,  is  called  guilt.    "Well,  well,  I 


214 


THE  FAREWELL. 


suppose  tliat  it  is  so.  But  in  tliat  brigliter  and  better 
Avorld — there,  Blanche,  there,  where  the  morning  star 
now  beams  so  softly,  and  looks  down  so  quietly,  as  if 
in  sympathy  with  the  sorrows  of  this  dai'lv  earth — in 
that  world  our  deep  love  will  be  no  crime — will  violate 
no  vow!  Until  then,  my  Blanche  until  then,  i'arewell ! 
farewell !  farewell !  " 

^  *  *  *  -Jf  * 

Oh,  it  was  a  wild  and  terrible  parting! 

•X-         *         -x-         *  *  * 

The  day  was  dawning.  Adrian  de  Marigni  laid  that 
lifeless  and  lovely  form  on  the  couch,  and,  for  the  last 
time,  pressed  his  lips  to  that  cold  and  pallid  brow. 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  HEIRESS.  215 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  HEIRESS. 

IT  was  in  the  month  of  May,  1307,  that  the  King 
of  France  transmitted  to  Pope  Clement  Fifth,  at 
Avignon,  bj  the  hands  of  Ilexian,  Prior  of  Montfaucon, 
as  already  intimated,  a  detailed  account  of  the  revela- 
tions of  Squin  de  Florian  and  the  apostate  Templar, 
Noffo  Dei.  At  the  same  time,  De  Molai,  Grand  Master 
of  the  order,  addressed  the  Sovereign  Pontiff,  as  has 
also  been  said,  on  the  same  subject,  demanding  strictest 
scrutiny  of  the  charges  preferred,  and  submitting  the 
Fraternity  to  the  severest  penalties,  should  they  be  sus- 
tained :  but,  demanding,  likewise,  the  infliction  of  pun- 
ishment equally  severe  upon  their  calumniators,  should 
their  specifications  prove  fbdse. 

Three  months  passed  away,  during  which  the  events 
last  related  had  transpired.  At  length,  a  Papal  Bull, 
bearing  date  the  21th  day  of  August  of  the  same  year, 
appeared,  in  which  Clement  declared  that  the  crimes 
ascribed  to  the  Templars  seemed  to  him  not  only 
improbable,  but  impossible;  yet,  for  the  satisfaction  of 
his  "  dear  son  of  France,"  he  had  resolved  on  a  judicial 
investigation  of  the  charges  preferred,  and  he  required 
the  King  to  forward  him,  at  once,  all  evidence  tending 
to  establish,  and  the  Grand  Master  all  evidence  tending 
to  controvert  the  grave  accusations. 


216 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  HEIRESS. 


The  rage  of  Philip  at  what  he  deemed  palpable  indi- 
cation on  the  part  of  his  Holiness  to  evade  tlie  sixth 
article  of  tlie  secret  compact  which  had  raised  him  to 
the  Papal  cliair,  and,  at  a  movement  which,  by  all,  was 
deemed  a  manifestation  of  favorable  feeling  towards  the 
proscribed  and  persecuted  order,  knew  no  bounds.  His 
private  counsellors,  consisting  of  Engiierrand  de  Mnrigni, 
Prime  Minister,  William  de  Nogaret,  Chancellor,  Hugh 
de  Chatillon,  Grand  Constable,  William  Imbert,  or  Wil- 
liam of  Paris,  Grand  Inquisitor  and  Confessor  of  the 
King,  William  du  Plessis,  a  Dominican  priest,  and 
Ilexian,  Prior  of  Montfaucon,  the  disgraced  Templar, 
each  one  and  all  of  them  avowed  and  irreconcilable  foes 
of  the  order,  v/'ere,  at  once,  assembled,  and,  upon  full 
and  patient  consideration  of  the  subject,  it  was  resolved, 
for  the  present,  to  simulate  entire  compliance  with  the 
papal  mandate,  and  to  await  the  issue  of  events  prelim- 
inary to  more  active  movements,  meanwhile,  as  if  in 
ol)edience  to  tlie  Ball  of  his  Holiness,  making  use  of 
every  effoit  to  accumulate  proof  in  substantiation  of 
the  charges  already  preferred. 

But  Philip  had  another  counsellor,  on  whose  judgment 
he  relied,  and  whose  suggestions  he  followed  far  more 
implicitly  than  those  of  any  one,  or,  indeed,  of  all  the 
others  named.  That  counsellor  was  the  strong-minded 
Blanche,  Countess  of  Marche  ;  and  of  her  counsellings  the 
effect  ere  long  became  painfully  manifest. 

Ever  since  that  terrible  night  in  June,  Adrian  de 
Marigni  had  disappeared  from  all  eyes.  At  first,  his 
sudden  absence  gave  rise  to  no  little  comment  at  the 


THE  PRINCESS  AXD  THE  HEIEESS.  217 


Louvre.  But  this  was  sliortly  stopped  by  tlie  rumor 
that  he  had  returned  to  the  camp  of  Charles  of  Yalois, — 
a  rumor  which  was  sustained  by  the  authority  of  the 
Minister  liimself,  who  had  received  from  his  son  a  note, 
giving  notice  that  he  should,  for  some  thue,  be  absent 
from  Court,  and  desiring  that  all  inquiry  respecting  him 
m^'ght  be  discountenanced. 

But,  however  satisfactory  all  this  might  prove  to 
every  one  else, — even  to  a  father  and  a  mother  who 
doated  on  a  son,— -there  were  two  inmates  of  the  Louvre 
to  whom  it  was  far — far  otherwise.  Alas  !  tJiey  knew  of 
that  son  and  his  fate  far  more  than  even  those  who  had 
given  him  being ! 

Blanche  of  Artois,  for  some  days  after  the  farewell 
visit  of  her  lover,  closely  kept  her  apartments  on  plea  of 
illness,  a  plea — unlike  most  pleas  of  ladies  under  similar 
circumstances — anything  but  untrue. 

At  first,  when  recovering  from  the  swoon  in  which  she 
.had  been  left,  she  found  herself,  indeed,  deserted,  the  recol- 
lection of  the  past  night  pierced  hke  an  arrow  through 
her  breast.  Crushed,  overwhelmed,  despairing,  wretched, 
she  wished  only  to  die,  and  regretted  only  that  ever 
again  her  eyes  had  opened  on  a  now  abhorred  existence. 

But  this  did  not  last.  "With  minds  possessed  of 
strength  and  elasticity  such  as  Lers,  despair  rarely  en- 
dures. As  the  softer  and  gentler  emotions  of  love  and  of 
sorrow  subsided,  a  deeper  and  darker  passion  arose  in 
her  heart,  and  took  unresisted  possession  of  all  her 
powers.  Hour  after  hour,  day  after  day,  and  night  after 
right,  through  all  its  still  and  sleepless  watches,  alone 


218 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  HEIRESS. 


in  lier  solitaiy  cliamber,  did  sLe  brood  over  her  fancied 
wrongs  and  her  real  sorrows.  And  in  tliat  lonely  cham- 
ber was  conceived  and  matured  a  scheme  of  vengeance, 
the  mere  recital  of  which,  for  full  five  centuries  has 
struck  the  world  with  awe ! 

During  this  seclusion,  Blanche  received  but  one  guest — 
the  King- — except,  indeed,  her  husband,  the  gay  and  liand- 
some  Count  of  Marche,  who  dashed  in,  for  an  instant, 
early  one  morning,  before  she  had  risen  from  her  couch — 
or,  rather,- just  as  she  was  dropping  to  sleep — to  inquire 
if  she  were  really  ill,  as  he  had  heard  it  rumored — all 
equipped  for  a  haw^king  party,  falcon  0*11  fist,  along  the 
Seine  ;  and  then  dashed  out  again,  and  the  next  moment 
was  galloping  out  of  the  gate  of  the  Louvre,  at  the  side 
of  one  of  the  fairest  ladies  of  the  Court. 

But  what  cared  Blanche  of  Artois  for  this  ?  The  time 
had  long  gone  by  when  her  heart  had  a  single  throb  for 
Charles  le  Bel.  Long  ago  had  he  forfeited  all  claim  to 
her  affection,  and  he  knew  it.  And  now  he  might  love 
her,  he  might  hate  her,  he  might  despise  her,  he  might 
pity  her,  it  was  all  one  to  her.  For  him  she  felt — ?ioth' 
ing  at  all:  unless,  perchance,  an  indifference  so  utter 
and  so  profound  as  was  hers  may  be  dignified  by  the 
name  of  a  feeling.  She  neither  desired  him  to  visit 
her,  nor  to  avoid  her.  She  desired  nothing  whatever, 
with  reference  to  him.  If  he  were  happy,  she  cared  not; 
were  he  wretched,  it  is  probable  she  would  have  cared  as 
little ;  had  he  been  ill,  she  would  quite  likely  Lave  visi- 
ted him ;  but,  if  he  had  died,  she  was  hardly  the  woman 
to  have  condescended  to  the  mockery  of  a  tear. 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  HEIRESS. 


219 


-  Why  should  she  ? 

There  was  bat  one  tiling  with  reference  to  diaries  of 
late,  since  his  unblushing  and  notorious  i'Dfidelity  to  his 
marriage  vow,  and,  especially,  since  her  own  mad  passion 
for  Adrian  de  Marigni,  which  seemed  at  all  to  interest 
her,  and  that,  strangely  enough,  was  his  gallantry  to  ladies 
of  the  Cornet.  It  seemed  to  afford  lier  more  satisfaction 
than  even  himself ;  nay,  her  azure  eyes  would  sparklo 
with  absolute  gladness  when  she  observed  his  undisguised 
assiduity  to — any  woman  but  herself!  Perhaps  she  laid 
the  sweet  u.nction  to  her  soul  that  the  unfaithfulness  of 
Charles  to  her  not  only  palliated,  but  authoiized  her  own 
to  him  ;  and,  perhaps,  she  was  secretly  pleased  with  any- 
thing, or  with  any  person,  who  could  divert  the  atten- 
tion of  her  legal,  yet  most  inconstant  lord  from  hei'own 
love  and  lover,  and  her  own  fair  and  inconstant  self! 

But  all  this  \vas  a  tiling  of  the  past.  It  was  all  ov^er 
now,  and  forevei'!  A  darker  and  deadlier  passion  than 
love  no w^  possessed  a  lieait,  which  had  once  been  all — all 
tenderness.  She  alone,  of  all  the  Court,  made  no  inquiiy 
respecting  the  mysterious  disap})earance  of  Adrian  de 
Marigni,  who,  since  that  summer  night,  had  been  seen  no 
more.  She,  alone,  had  nothing  to  inquire  about.  Every- 
thing was  hnoicn  to  her  !  Everything?  Not  quite  every- 
thing ;  and  it  was  to  complete  that  knowledge — it  was 
to  make  certainty  more  certain,  that,  on  the  evening  of 
the  fourth  day  of  her  seclusion,  she  sent  for  her  fair 
young  maid  of  honor,  Marie  Morfontaine,  the  boy  dove 
and  betrothed  bride  of  the  youno;  soldier,  Adrian  de 
Marigni,  Count  Le  Portier  and  son  of  the  Premier  of 
14 


220 


THE  PEINCESS  AND  THE  HEIRESS. 


France — prior  to  his  passion  for  Blanche,  and.  througli 
her  influence,  liis  initiation,  also,  into  the  illustrious  and 
ancient  Order  of  Templar  Kniglits. 

The  me.ssage  of  the  Countess  found  poor  Marie  very 
mnch  in  the  situation  of  the  Countess  herself.  She,  too, 
was  a  recluse.  She,  too,  was  quite  as  ill — and  quite  as 
miserable, — at  least,  and  no  doubt  she  thought  she  was— 
as  her  noble  friend.  But  then  she  was  not  a  Pj-incess, 
she  was  only  the  orphan  heiressof  immense  estates  ;  and 
what  right  had  she  to  have  feelings,  or  to  shut  herself 
np  to  indulge  them  ? 

No,  no;  the  proud  Countess  of  Marche  demanded  the 
pi-esence  of  her  maid  of  lionor,  and  the  poor  maid  of 
honor,  although  it  was  hardly  less  than  death  for  her  to 
obey,  dared  not  send  back  refusal  or  apology. 

And,  so,  Marie  Morfontaine,  pale  and  spiritless,  at  once 
repaired  to  the  private  apartments  of  the  Countess  of 
Marche. 

The  Countess  was  reclining  on  a  couch,  garbed  in  a 
white  robe  de  chamhre^  her  head  sustained  by  pillo\\^s. 
The  rich  effulgence  of  a  summer  sunset  was  streaming  in 
horizontal  rays  through  the  western  casements,  and  threw 
a  gloom  of  more  than  human  beauty  on  her  pallid  cheek. 
Her  dark  hair  lay  neglected  in  loose  and  glossy  masses 
on  the  pillow,  and  her  large  azure  eye  flashed  with  un- 
earthly brilliancy — the  limpid  and  pellucid  brilliancy  of 
a  beautiful  gem. 

"  Ah,"  sighed  poor  Marie,  as  she  timidly  glanced  at 
that  lovely  face,  and  that  faultless  form,  "no  wonder — < 
no  wonder  he  was  false  to  me !  " 


THE  PRINCESS  AXD  THE  HEIRESS. 


221 


But  slie  Lad  little  leisure,  poor  girl,  for  sigliing,  or  for 
soliloquy.    Blanclie  was  evidently  awaiting  the  visit. 

"Be  seated,  Marie,"  said  tlie  Countess  in  those  soft, 
kind  tones  she  Lad  ever  used  to  tlie  orpLau.  "Not 
there,  dear,"  slie  added,  as  tLe  young  lady  was  retreating 
to  a  distant  cLair.  "  Here,  come  Lere  ;  sit  close  beside 
me  on  tLe  coucL,  and  turn  your  face  to  tLe  ligLt,  so  tLat 
I  can  see  you.  Heavens,  Low  pale  you  are  !  You  seem 
ill,  Marie;  are  you  ill?" 

"  Yes,  madame,"  was  tLe  trembling  answer. 

"  And  tliis  is  wLy  3'ou  Lave  not  visited  me  of  late,  is 
it  not,  Marie  ?  "  asked  tLe  Countess,  kindly.  "  You 
sLould  let  me  know  wLen  you  are  ill,  or — or — unLappy^ 
and  not  desert  me ;  /,  too,  am  ill." 

Tlie  orpLan  replied  not,  but  Ler  evident  agitation 
could  not  escape  tLe  keen  eye  of  BlancLe,  wlio  Avas 
watcliing  every  variation  of  ligLt,  or  of  sLadow,  on  tliat 
coloi'less  face. 

It  would  Lave  been  a  group  not  unwortLjr  tLe  study 
of  a  master — of  a  Cimabue,  for  example.  Lad  Le  not 
died  some  seven  years  before — tLat  sweet  3^oung  Leiress 
and  tLat  splendid  princess,  as  tLey  sat  side  by  side  on 
tLat  coucL,  illuminated  by  tLat  crimson  ligiit ;  tLe  one  a 
]\[use,  tlie  otLer  a  Grace;  one  a  Minerva,  tLe  otLer  a 
Yenus;  one  a  Melpomene,  tLe  otLer  a  Eu23Lrosyne ; 
botL  beautiful,  botli  mournful. 

"Tell  me,  Marie,"  said  tLe  Countess,  after  a  pause, 
during  wLicL  Ler  searcLing  eye  was  fixed  on  tLe  sLrink- 
ing  girl,  "  tell  me  tlie  gossip  of  tLe  Court,  tell  me  of 
your  affair  with  Edmond  de  GotL." 


222 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  HEIRESS. 


"  What  affair,  madame?  "  coldly  asked  the  orphan. 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  necessity  for  such  excessive  coyness, 
if  you  are  a  maiden,  Marie.  Your  love-affair,  to  be 
sure,  of  which  every  one  knows,  and  every  one  talks !  " 

"If  there  is,  or  has  been,  any  love  between  Count 
Edmond  de  Goth  and  myself,  madame,  it  must  be,  or  k 
have  been,  all  on  his  side,''  was  the  sharp  answer. 

"  And  why  do  you  not  love  him,  Marie  ?  "  asked  the 
Countess.    "  He  loves  you." 

"  Because,  madame  " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Because,  I  hate  him,  madame  !  "  was  the  reply. 

And  the  young  lady,  with  heightened  color  and  spark- 
ling eye,  certainly  looked  all  she  said. 

"  Hate  him !  "  rejoined  the  Countess  with  a  smile ;  "  well, 
that  is,  doubtless,  a  good  reason  for  not  loving  bim  !  But 
hate — it  is  a  harsli  word  for  lips  so  soft  as  yours,  Marie! 
Yet,  why  do  you  hate  the  gallant  ICdmond?  Any  lady 
at  Court  might  be  proud  of  his  preference." 

"  He  has  been  the  cause  to  me — at  least  one  cause — • 
of  great  unhappiness,  madame,"  replied  Marie,  sadly. 

"  And  how  so  ?  " 

"There  was  another  I  loved,  madame;  and  he  loved 
me,  on.ce,"  faltered  the  poor  girl. 
"  And  he?  "  asked  t!ie  Countess. 
There  was  no  answer. 
"Was  Adrian  de  Marigni,  was  he  not?" 
"  He  was." 

"But  you  were  children,  Marie,  when  he  loved  you. 
Has  he  loved  you  since  ?  " 


THE  PRINCESS  AXD  THE  HEIRESS. 


223 


"I — I  have  lioped  so,  maclame,"  faltered  poor  Marie. 

It  Avas  now  the  Countess  T^'ho  was  excited. 

"And  does  he  love  yon  now?"  she  quickly  asked, — ■ 
herself  partaking,  for  a  moment,  of  the  agitatiou  of  ber 
companion. 

"iso,  madame,  no!  "  was  the  sad  but  decided  answer. 

The  Countess  breathed  more  freely. 

"And  why  not?"  she  asked. 

"  Becanse,  madame  " 

"  AY  ell,  well?  "  said  the  princess,  impatiently. 

"Because  he  loves  another,  madame." 

"And  how  know  you  that?  "  was  the  cjuick  question, 

"I  saw — I  saw  him  in  her  chamber,  madame." 
-  "But  that  proves  nothing,"  returned  the  Countess, 
anxiously,  after  a  pause. 

"I  saw  him  in  her  chamber  after  midnio-ht,  madame!" 
exclaimed  tbe  girl,  Avith  an  effort. 

"Ah,  that  is  different,"  replied  Blanche. 

Her  voice  was  low,  her  tones  suppressed,  her  lips 
livid. 

"And  who  is  this  rival?  "  she  asked,  after  a  pause,  in 
tones  yet  lower. 

Both  women  seemed  to  feel  themselves  on  the  verge 
of  a  dreadful  development,  yet  neither  had  power  to 
resist  tbe  weii'd  fascination  which  drew  them  to  the 
precipice. 

"My  rival,  madame?"  sighed  Marie.     "Oh,  she  is 
one  far,  far  my  superior." 
"  In  rank  ?  " 
"Infinitely  above  me." 


224 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  HEIRESS. 


"  In  beautj?" 

"  Oh,  madame  " — »and  tlie  poor  girl  stole  a  glance  at 
the  lovely  face  and  matchless  form  beside  her — ''I  have 
no  charm  of  mind,  or  of  person,  to  compare  with  hers. 
Indeed,  I  do  not  wonder  lie  loved  her  in  preference  to 
me,  and  I  do  not  blame  him  nowj'' 

"Marie  Morfontaine,"  cried  the  Countess,  rising  from 
her  pillow  and  grasping  the  arm  of  her  trembling  com- 
panion, "who  is  this  rival?" 

Tlie  young  girl  was  silent. 

"  On  your  allegiance,  I  charge  yon,  Mar'e  Morfontaine, 
tell  me:  who  is  this  rival?  "  repeated  the  Countess — in 
wild,  harsh  tones. 

"Madame — madame — I  dare  not  "  beoan  the  ter- 

o 

rifled  girl. 

"  Aye,  but  yon  shall  tell  me !  "  was  the  qnick  answer. 

"  Madame,  she  is — she  is  — " 

;    "Well,— well,— well?" 
"  The  Countess  of  Marche  I " 

Blanche  dropped  the  arm  of  Marie,  and  sank  back 
upon  her  pillow ;  but,  instantly  rising,  she  said  in  low 
but  emphatic  tones,  again  grasping  the  arm  of  the 
unresisting  girl,  and  gazing  steadily  into  her  eyes: 

"  And  do  yon  tell  me,  Marie  Morfontaine,  that  you 
have  seen  Adrian  de  Marigni  in  the  chamber  of  the 
Countess  of  Marche  after  midnight  ?  " 

"  Madame,  I  do !  "  was  the  stern  answer. 

For  an  instant,  indignation  asserted  ascendency. 

A  silence  of  some  moments  followed. 

"Marie,"  at  length  said  the  Countess  in  low  tones,  "do 


THE  PRINCESS  AXD  THE  HEISESS. 


225 


3^011  know  that  tlie  Avords  you  have  just  spoken  to  me, 
if  spoken  elsewhere,  woukl  lay  your  head  on  tbe  block — 
or.  mine  ?  " 

There  Avas  a  shudder,  but  no  answer. 

"  Teil  me,  Marie,''  continued  the  Princess,  after  ex- 
treme agitation,  ''tell  me,  honestly,  when  did  you  see 
your  lover — in  my  chamber — at  night?  Tell  me — tell 
me  all!" 

-'On  the  night  of  the  bridal  fete  of  the  King  of 
England  and  Isabella — — " 
''^AVell,  well  ?  " 

''I  saw  Adrian  de  Marigni  leave  the  spot  Avhere  you 
now  lie  and  glide  Cjuicklj'  to  tliat  door ! 

With  a  low  groan,  the  Countess  sank  back  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands. 

The  young  girl  was  like  a  corpse — as  colorless — as 
cold. 

"  Marie,"  said  the  Princess,  softly,  after  a  pause,  again 
rising  and  grasping  the  arm  ot  her  companion,  ''have 
you  ever  named  what — what  you  that  night  saw, — to — ■ 
to — another  ?  " 

"  To  one  person,  madame,  I  have,"  replied  the 
orphan. 

''And  but  one  " 
But  one." 

Blanche  shuddered. 

"  And  that  one  ?  " 

"  Was  Jacques  de  Molai  -" 

"Grand  Master  of  the  Temple! added  the  Countess. 
Could  Marie  Morfootaine  have  foreseen  the  efiect  of 


226 


TOE  PEINCESS  AND  THE  HEIRESS. 


lier  words,  roused  almost  to  delirium  though  she  herself 
was,  she  would  probably,  have  paused,  ere  they  left  her 
lips. 

"  Fieud  !  fiend  !  "  shrieked  the  Countess  of  Marche, 
springing  with  fury  from  the  couch  on  which  slie  lay, 
and  dragging  thence  the  terrified  girl  by  the  arm,  which 
she  grasped  until  her  fingers  met  in  the  discoloi'ed  flesh. 

To  3^ou,  til  en — to  you,  wretch  !  do  I  owe  the  ruin  of  all 
most  dear  to  me  in  lil'e  !  To  you  do  I  owe  almost  the 
anguish  of  the  damned  !" 

And  quickly  producing,  fiom  the  folds  of  her  white 
dress,  a  stiletto  of  most  minute  and  delicate  proportions, 
she  flung  its  golden  sheath  from  it  upon  the  floor,  and 
raised  the  glittering  and  needle-like  blade  above  the 
prostrate  girl  1 

This  sudden  movement  laid  partially  bare  her  snowy 
and  swelling  breast.  A  strange  resting-place,  that  soft, 
warm  bosom,  for  that  flashing  and  fatal  steel ! 

For  an  instant  the  gleaming  weapon  hung  suspended, 
as  by  a  hair,  quivering  as  if  with  life  over  the  heart  of 
the  unresisting,  the  fainting,  the  terrified  girl !  A  change 
passed  over  the  livid  face  of  the  infuriated  Princess; 
the  burning  glance  of  her  eye  lost  its  murderous,  con- 
centrated, snake-like  venom;  she  flung  the  keen  blue 
blade  from  her  hand. 

"  Why  should  I  pollute  myself  with  lier  blood?  "  she 
faintly  murmured.  "  She  knew  not  what  she  did.  Be- 
sides, her  terrible  secret  dies  not  with  /zer,  it  is  no  longer 
her  own.  No,  no,  my  vengeance  seeks  loftier  victims 
tlian  a  love-lorn  girl.    And  it  shall  be  a  vengeance — oh, 


THE  PRINCESS  AXD  THE  HEiEESS. 


227 


it  shall  be  a  vengeance,  at  wLicli,  ages  Lence,  men  sball 
gTow  pale!  Eise!"  slie  exclaimed,  at  the  same  time 
relinquishing  lier  grasp  and  spurning  lier  companion 
Avith  scorn. 

Almost  dead  with  tensor,  the  fainting  girl  did  as  she 
was  commanded,  and  stood  cowering  before  her  infuri- 
ated mistress. 

For  a  moment  Blanche  of  Artois  gazed  on  her  with 
black  and  menacing  brow.  Then  her  countenance  grad- 
ually softened,  and,  in  tones  of  touching  sorrow,  she 
exclaimed,  clasping  her  hands,  while  tears  started  to  her 
e\'es 

"  Why,  oh,  Avhy,  have  you  done  this,  Marie?" 
The  poor  orphan  did  not  reply. 

"Have  I  not  been  _your  friend,  Marie?  "  continued  the 
Countess,  sadly;  "  have  I  not  protected  and  loved  you? 
Have  I  ever  harmed  you?  flow  have  I  provoked  this 
resentment?  How,  oh„  how,  have  I  deserved  such  a 
dreadful  recompense  ?  " 

"/  loved  him,  too,"'  faltered  Marie,  bursting  into  an 
agony  of  tears. 

"  You — 3^ou  loved  Mm!^^  exclaimed  the  Countess. 
"  Why,  girl,  Adrian  de  Marigni  was  not  a  being  for  you 
to  love!  As  well  might  the  lark  seek  to  mate  with  the 
eagle,  as  your  spirit  with  his  !  As  well  might  the  gloAV- 
worm  aspire  to  the  star,  as  you  to  him  !  " 

"  And  3'et — and  yet — T  loved  him,  madame  ;  and — and 
he  loved  me^  once,"  sobbed  the  orphan. 

"  When  you  were  children,"  sharply  replied  the 
Countess;  "you  forget  he  is  no  longer  a  child,  if  you 


228 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  HEIRESS. 


are.  You  sliould  Lave  forgotten  3' our  girlish  fancy  for 
a  boj  playmate.    He  has  forgotten  his.'' 

"I  know  it,  madame,"  faltered  the  girl.  "He  loves 
me  no  more.  Yet  I  love  him — I  love  him  dearly,, 
despite—- — " 

"  Love  him!  and  what  has  been  yonr  love,  compared 
with  mine?  You,  a  weak,  silly,  simple  child, — I,  a 
woman     cried  the  Countess. 

BLanclie  of  Artois  was  but  a  few  years  the  senior  of 
Marie  Morfontaine  ;  but  now  she  seemed  an  elder  sister 
■ — almost  a  mother.  Such  are  the  effects,  on  the  person, 
of  mind  and  passion. 

"  You  say  you  loved  him,"  continued  the  Princess. 
"  Well,  the  test  of  love  is  the  sacrifice  it  will  make 
for  its  object.  What  sacrifice  would  you  have  made 
to  your  love?  " 

"  I  would  liavo  sacrificed  — "  began  Marie. 

"  Your  honor,  girl?  " 

"  I  would  have  yielded  him  my  life,  had  he  asked  it," 
replied  Marie,  meekly. 

"  Your  life  I — your  life  !  "  exclaimed  the  Countess, 
scornfully.  "And  yet,''  she  instantly  added,  clasping  licr 
hands,  and  raising  her  flashing  eyes  in  agony  to  Heaven, 
"oh,  God  !  oh,  God  !  you  have  sacrificed  his  I  " 

"  Madame — madame  !  "  cried  the  affrighted  girl,  grnsp- 
ing  the  Countess  in  her  turn  by  the  arm  ;  "what  do 
yon  say  ?  " 

"  What  do  I  say  ?  I  say  that  you,  wretch,  liave  con- 
signed the  noble  victim  of  your  pitiful  passion  to  the 
dun.geon — to  thetortiu-e — oh,  God,  perchance,  to  a  dread- 


THE  PPJXCESS  AXD  THE  HEIRESS. 


229 


fill  deatli  I  Know  yoa  not  the  Templar  rule  ?  Emow  3'ou 
not  the  Templar  tow  ?  Know  3*011  not  the  merciless 
severity  of  that  terrible  man,  to  whom  you  revealed  your 
more  terribie  secret?  Girl,  girl,  xldrian  de  IMarigni  was 
a  Templar  Knight !  On  your  accusation,  he  will  be 
stretched  on  the  rack  !  Confess,  he  never  will ;  and  he 
^vill  die  in  a  dungeon  I  " 

"  A  dungeon  ! — torture — death  I  Oh,  I  dreamed  not 
that—1  dreamed  not  that  I  cried  the  frantic  girl.  "I 
meant  only  to  part  him  from  3*0 u  ! 

Well,  be  satisfied — you  have  succeeded  !  "  was  the 
bitter,  yet  sad  reph^      We  are  parted  !  " 

A  pause  of  considerable  duration  ensued,  in  which 
neither  of  the  Avomen  spake.  Both  seemed  buried  in 
thought.  The  Countess  paced  the  room  with  hasty 
steps.    Marie  Morfontaine  had  sunk  upon  the  couch. 

"Oh,  madame,*'  at  length  exclaimed  Marie,  "can 
nothing  be  done  to  save  him  ?  ^' 

Nothing  I  "  was  the  gloom3-  answer. 

"  ^Vhat,  then,  remains  for  us?-' 

The  Countess  stopped  in  her  walk,  and  replied : 

"  Vengeance  I " 

"  And  for  me?  " 

^'  To  aid — perhaps.'' 

"  Oh,  madame,  I  would  die  for  revenge  I  "  earnestly 
exclaimed  Marie,  springing  to  her  feet,  with  flashing 
eyes  and  clasped  hands. 

"  Then  live  for  it.    Go,  I  would  be  alone  !  " 

And  Blanche  of  Artois  sank  on  the  couch. 

And  Marie  Morfontaine  slunk  from  the  chamber. 


230 


THE  ARREST. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  ARREST. 

THE  Feast  of  St.  Denis,  in  tlie  year  1307,  fell  upon 
Monday,  the  ninth  day  of  October. 
On  the  night  of  that  day  the  King  of  France  was 
in  close  conclave  until  a  late  hour  with,  his  privy  coun- 
sellors. 

On  tlie  three  succeeding  days,  Philip  was  in  constant 
consultation  with  Blanche  of  Artois  :  and  couriers,  with 
sealed  orders  addressed  to  officers  of  the  crown  in  all 
parts  of  the  realm,  were  hourly  leaving  the  Louvre.  On 
the  night  of  Thursday,  the  twelfth,  especially,  couriers 
were  constantly  thundering  at  full  speed  over  the  draw- 
bridge of  the  palace  and  through  the  gates  of  the  city,  in 
all  directions,  bearing  the  last  sealed  orders  to  points 
nearest  the  capital;  and  some  were  not  despatched 
even  until  after  the  morning  dawn  of  the  succeeding 
day. 

Friday,  the  thirteenth  of  October,  was  as  sweet  an 
autumnal  day  as  ever  smiled,  frostily  but  cheerily,  on 
the  gliding  waters  of  the  Seine. 

By  an  understanding,  prior  and  privy,  between  the 
Grand  Master  of  tlie  Templars  and  Philip  of  France,  at 
the  instance  of  the  latter,  that  day  had  been  fixed  on  for 
a  visit  of  the  King,  accompanied  by  his  high  officers  and 
all  the  nobles  of  his  Court,  to  the  Palace  of  the  Temple, 


THE  ARREST.  231 

tlint  the  absurd  and  abominable  charges  against  tlie  order 
miglit  be  abundantly  disproved.  Late  on  the  previous 
evening  orders  had  been  issued  by  Hugh  de  Chatilion, 
Grand  Constable  of  France,  that  all  of  the  gentlemen  of 
the  Court,  as  ved  as  all  tlie  guard  of  the  palace,  and  the 
Provost's  guard  of  Paris,  should  be  under  arms  at  an 
earlv  hour  of  the  following  da}',  in  the  court  of  the 
Louvre,  This  order  had  been  obeyed,  and  at  the  hour 
of  noon  the  King,  vitli  his  Minister,  Chancellor  and  Con- 
fessor, descended  to  the  court,  and  placing  himself  at 
the  head  of  a  most  formidable  troop  of  horse  there 
,  assembled,  marshalled  by  the  Grand  Constable,  issued 
from  the  Eastern  gate  of  the  Louvre,  and  ascending  the 
street  of  St,  Penis,  and  emerging  into  the  plains  by  the 
city  gate  of  the  same  name,  approached  the  gloomy 
walls  of  the  Temple. 

As  the  cavalcade  drew  nigh  to  that  darlv  pile,  from  the 
square  and  massive  central  tower  of  which  streamed  out 
in  heavy  folds  the  fearful  Beauseant,  the  drawbridge  fell, 
the  portcullis  rose,  the  ponderous  leaves  of  tlie  embattled 
gatewav  swung  on  their  hinges,  and  the  wliole  bodv  of 
^i'emplars  in  their  white  cloaks  appeared  drawn  up  to 
receive  their  royal  guest  wdth  the  venerable  Grand 
I\Iaster  at  their  head,  bearing  in  his  hand  the  mystic 
abacus.  This  was  the  o;ily  symTiol  of  authority  which 
was  to  be  Avitnessed.  Sword  nor  dagger,  arms  nor  armor, 
were  to  be  seen  in  all  that  peaceful  ari'ay:  although  every 
individual  in  the  extended  train,  of  the  King  was  armed 
to  the  teeth— a  circumstance  of  which  the  Templars 
in  their  blind  confidence  seemed  to  take  no  note. 


232 


THE  AKREST. 


Having  entered  tlie  gateway  into  a  paved  and  ex- 
tensive court,  on  all  sides  environed  by  massive  struct- 
ures, the  drawbridge  again  rose — the  portcullis  fell,  and 
the  ponderous  gates  returned  on  their  groaning  hinges. 
Descending  from  their  steeds  and  delivering  them  to  the 
serving  brothers  of  the  order,  who,  in  black  costume, 
stood  ready  to  conduct  them  to  the  stables,  tlie  won- 
dering cavalcade,  not  one  of  whom  save  the  King  and 
his  council  knew  the  purport  of  the  visit,  with  awe  fol- 
lowed in  the  footsteps  of  tke  Templars  into  the  vast  and 
magnificent  chapel. 

A  dim,  ]'eligious  liglit  stealing  through,  the  tall  and  lan- 
ceolated  casements  pervaded  the  spacious  sanctuary.  The 
altar  draj)ed  in  black  Avas  lighted  by  twelve  immense 
candles,  and  was  decorated  for  high  mass;  and  at  its 
foot  kneeled  priests  in  cope  and  stole  and  deacons  in  alb 
and  dalmatica.  At  that  moment,  at  a  signal  fi'om  the 
venerable  Master,  the  Chaplain  raised  the  magnificent 
j\salm,  "  Gloria  in  excelsis^^  in  which  the  whole  company 
of  Templars,  some  hundreds  in  number,  solemnly  joined. 
The  eft'ect  of  this  imposing  chant,  raised  by  the  deep 
voices  of  tliis  vast  choir  of  soldier-priests,  accompanied 
by  the  organ  and  echoed  from  the  groined  and  sculp- 
tured roof  of  that  s})lendid  pile,  was  grand  beyond 
description. 

The  chant  ceased,  and,  at  that  instant,  Hugh  de 
Chatillon,  Grand  Constable  of  France,  strode  up  the 
aisle,  and,  drawing  his  sword,  and  laying  his  hand  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  Grand  iMaster  of  the  Temple, 
exclaimed: 


THE  AEREST. 


233 


"Gentlemen  of  France,  Guards  of  Paris— in  the  came 
of  your  King,  I  arrest  Jacques  de  Molai,  and  all  liis 
order  here  assembled,  for  liigli  crimes  and  misde- 
meanors I  To  the  rescue!  to  the  rescue  1  France! 
France !  " 

Had  a  thunderbolt  descended  into  the  aisle  of  that 
consecrated  fane,  the  effect  conld  not  have  been  m.ore 
startling. 

Instantly  the  SAVord  of  Philip  flashed  in  his  hand! 
Instantly  the  swords  of  all  his  followers  flashed  also. 
And  instantly  rose  in  that  vast  hall  the  awful  shout: 
Beaiiseant — Beauseant !     For  the    Temple!    for  the 
Temple ! " 

But,  alas!  alas!  that  terrific  battle-crj^,  which,  on  an 
hundred  bloody  fields,  had  struck  panic  into  a  turbaned 
foe,  was  powerless  now — had  lost  its  spell !  In  vain  did 
the  scarred  and  war-Avorn  veterans  strike  their  unmailed 
hands  upon  their  unarmed  sides:  thej^  were  weaponless  ! 
In  vain  did  the  heroic  De  Molai,  before  God  and  man, 
solemifly  protest  against  this  nnheard-oP  pei'fidy,  and 
appeal  to  the  Templars'  sole  tribunal,  the  See  of  Eome! 

Unarmed,  ao-ainst  twice  their  number  armed  to  the 
utmost,  the  struggle  of  these  valiant  men,  avIio,  Avith 
their  faithful  battle-blades  in  their  grasp,  AA'ould  haA'e 
swept  ten  times  the  foe  uoay  arrayed  against  them  from 
their  path,  as  the  chaff  on  the  tlireshing- floor  is  swept 
before  the  Avind,  Avas  brief  and  unavailing.  Overpow- 
ered by  multitudes,  A^et  to  the  last  unyielding,  all  were 
arrested,  loaded  Avith  manacles,  and  plunged  into  the 
deepest  dungeons  of  their  own  sacred  house.  And  bitter- 


234 


THE  ARREST. 


est  of  all,  as  they  passed  through  tlie  court,  their  glori- 
ous Beauseant  no  longer  floated  from  its  tower;  but,  in 
its  place,  rolled  out  the  snowy  folds  of  tlie  Oriflamme  of 
France  on  tbe  autumnal  breeze! 

The  arrest  at  tlie  Temple  was  complete.*  That  grim 
structure,  which  all  tbe  foi'ce  of  Philip  of  France  would 
have  in  vain  openly  assailed,  fell  in  a  single  hour  before 
his  fraud.  And  at  that  same  hour,  of  tbat  same  day, 
throughout  all  France,  every  soldier  of  the  Temple, 
wherever  found,  or  however  eno;a2:ed,  was  in  like  man- 
ner  arrested. 

Immediately  upon  tbe  arrest  of  the  Templars,  the 
Minister  proclaimed  the  Temple  to  be  hence fortb  a  pal- 
ace of  the  King,  and  depository  of  the  royal  treasures; 
and  all  of  tbe  possessions  of  the  order  to  be  under  royal 
seizure  and  attachment. 

The  King,  at  the  head  of  his  council  and  troops,  then 
set  out  f  )r  Paris,  and  crossing  the  Font  au  Change,  at  once 
advanced  to  the  Catbedral  of  Notre  Dame,  wbere  all 
of  its  canons  and  all  of  tbe  doctors  of  the  Universitj^, 
wbo  had  been  assembled  by  a  mandate  tbey  knew  not 
whence,  for  a  purpose  tbey  knew  not  what,  were  sitting 
in  solemn  conclave,  in  their  sable  robes.  To  tbis  grave 
body,  the  act  of  the  King  in  tbe  arrest  of  the  Tem[>lars  and 
his  motives  therefor  were  communicated  in  detail  by  the 

*  One  hunrli-ert  and  forty  Kniglits.  and  several  hundred  serving  brenireii 
and  priests,  were  arrested  with  De  Molai  at  the  Temple.  Some  auUiorilies 
assert  that  sealed  letters  were  despatched  to  the  royal  ofticers  throughout 
the  realm  as  early  as  September  r2tli,  with  orders  to  be  in  arms  on  the  r2th 
day  of  tiie  succeeVling  month;  and,  in  the  night  of  that  day  to  open  the  let- 
ters, and  act  as  they  coiinnauded.  Tlie  command  was  the  arrest  of  the  Tem- 
plars. To  disarm  suspicion,  De  Molai,  on  the  very  eve  of  the  arrest,  was 
selected  by  Philip  as  one  of  the  four  pall-bearers,  at  the  obsequies  of  the 
Princess  Catharine,  wife  of  the  Count  of  Valois. 


THE  ARREST, 


285 


Grand  Inquisitor  and  Ins  Dominican  assistants,  William 
du  Plessis,  and  that  infamous  apostate,  the  Prior  of 
Montfau^oii.^  Tiie  royal  act  and  the  royal  motives  for 
that  act  were,  of  course,  both  approved;  and  a  procla- 
mation was  sent  out  from  that  old  church  through  all 
Paris,  summoning  all  true  believers,  whether  of  laity  or 
clergy,  on  pain  of  penance,  to  assemble  in  the  gardens  of 
the  Louvre  at  the  sound  of  the  trumpet,  on  the  second 
day  ensuing,  to  hear  detailed  "the  awful  crimes  of  the 
iniquitous  order." 

The  assemblage,  at  the  time  and  place  designated, 
was,  of  course,  immense.  ScallbUls  had  been  erected 
lor  speakers,  and  from  these  Imbert,  Du  Plessis,  and  the 
apostate  Prior,  with  their  accomplices,  read  to  the  cred- 
ulous populace  a  list  of  one  hundred  and  twenty-seven 
charges  of  crime  against  the  persecuted  Templars,  all  of 
them  as  absurd  and  impossible  as  they  were  abominable 
and  infamous ;  yet  each  and  all  sustained  by  the  most 
violent  and  inflammatory  denunciation,  and  echoed  by 
the  shouts  of  the  ignorant  and  superstitious  throng.* 

Fortified  by  this  "  verdict  of  the  people,"  as  he  com- 
placently styled  it,  Philip  would  have  brought  the 
imprisoned  Templars  instantly  before  his  own  corrupt 

*  The  order  of  the  Temple  was  charged,  among  other  things,  with  having 
been  foiiuded  on  the  phm  of  the  Isma'ilites,  or,  Assassins,  a  secret  society  of 
tlie  East,— from  a  i)retended  identity  of  costume  and  secret  doctrine.  The 
Ismailites  wore  a  wliite  robe  with  a  red  girdle,  and  the  Templars  wore  a 
white  cloak  with  a  red  cross,  and  both  societies  were  secret  !  And  here,  it  is 
probable,  "all  likeness  ejids  between  the  pair."  It  is  asserted,  indeed,  that 
in  1228,  the  Templars  betrayed  the  Emperor  Frederick  II.  to  tlie  Egyptian 
Sultan  ;  but,  if  so,  tlie  Moslem  taught  them  a  bitter  lesson  of  faith  by  refusing 
to  avail  himself  of  their  perfidy;  and,  if  so,  no  wonder  that  tlie  indignant 
Emperor  wrote  of  them,  about  the  same,  "  The  haughty  religion  of  the  Tem- 
ple waxes  wanton."— "We  have  the  failings  of  men,"  said  Almeric  de  Vil- 
liers,'  "but  to  have  been  guilty  of  the  crimes  imputea  to  us  we  must  have 
been  fiends." 


15 


236 


THE  ARREST. 


tribunals  for  final  judgment  and  doom ;  but  lie  was 
warned  the  canons  and  doctors  that  no  secular  court 
Could  take  ultimate  cognizance  of  the  crinae  of  lieres}^, 
of  which  the  soldiers  of  the  Temple  were  accused  ;  that 
the  Templars,  as  a  religious-military  oixler,  confirmed 
by  the  Holy  See,  were  exempt  from  all  civil  jurisdiction; 
and  that,  as  for  their  possessions,  they  could  only  be 
appropriated  to  the  benefit  of  the  Church,  and  the  pur- 
poses of  their  orignal  donation. 

This  decision,  as  may  be  inferred,  Avas  not  very  wel- 
come to  the  Kinsj,  who  had  felicitated  himself  on  the 
spoils  of  the  fated  order,  as  well  as  on  tbe  contemplated 
gratification  of  a  deadly  revenge;  but  he  immediately 
issued  an  edict  for  the  interrogation  of  the  prisoners  by 
William  of  Paris,  and  his  familiars  in  presence  of  the 
high  officers  of  the  crown. 

And  thus  were  the  Templar  Knights  of  France  com- 
mitted to  the  tender  mercies  of  tlie  Inquisition! 
"  "The  fiat  of  Philip,"  says  the  liistorian,  "  had  gone 
forth  at  that  season  of  the  year,  when  the  cell  of  the 
captive  is  rendered  doubly  dreadful  by  the  rigor  of  the 
winter.  The  sufferers  were  deprived  of  the  habit  of 
their  order,  and  of  the  rites  and  comforts  of  the  Church; 
only  the  barest  necessaries  of  life  were  allowed  them : 
and  those  wlio  refused  to  })lead  guilty  were  subjected 
to  every  species  of  torture."*  Shrieks  and  groans  re- 
sounded in  all  the  prisons  of  France*  their  tormentors 
noted  down  not  only  their  words,  but  even  their  tears 


*  Ttavnouard— ¥on?<moi.<?  WsforigvA  Jtalatifa  a  la  Condamnation  des 
Cievaiiers  du  T3mpte  et  V  abolition  de  leur  Order, 


THE  ARREST. 


237 


and  sighs,  and  tlie  spirit  of  many  a  kniglit,  wli(3in  tlie 
terrors  of  Paynirn  war  had  failed  to  subdue,  quailed  at 
the  stake  and  on  the  rack.  Yet  that  nniiiber  was  but 
small,  and  the  large  pro[)(n'tion  endured  the  Question 
with  as  much  martyr-heroism  as'they  had  ever  braved  a 
nobler  doom  on  the  eiisauguined  field. 

In  Paris  the  dungeons  and  ouhlieites  and  ia  paces  of 
the  Louvre,  the  two  Clialelets,  the  Palace  of  Justice, 
and  of  the  Temple  itseU  were  all  in  special  requisition 
to  afibrd  imprisonment  to  the  persecuted  Templars, 
among  whom  arrested  at  the  Temple  were  the  Norman 
brothers,  Walter  and  Philip  de  Launai. 

As  for  Jacques  de  MoLai,  the  aged  Grand  Master,  he 
was  committed,  togetlier  with  Hugh  de  Peralde,  Grand 
Prior  of  France,  Pierre  de  Yillars,  Grand  Prior  of  Acqui- 
taine,  (Philip's  Minister  of  Finance,)  and  Guy,  Grand 
Prior  of  Normandy,  brother  to  the  Dauphin  of  Auvergne 
and  Yiennois,  Sovereign  Prince  of  Daupliiny,  and  some 
other  dignitaries  of  the  fated  order,  to  the  dungeons  of 
Chinon.  '     '  . 


238 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CHINON. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  CASTLE  OF  CHINON. 

N"  the  riglit  bank  of  tlie  Yienne,  near  its  conflu- 


\^  ence  with  the  sparkling  waters  of  the  Loire,  in 
the  ancient  Province  of  Limousin,*  once  stood  a  castle, 
which,  by  its  ruins,  still  existing,  is  proven  to  have  been 
one  of  the  most  perfect  of  all  the  masterpieces  of  feudal 
architecture. 

Its  site  was  a  lofty  crag,  overlooking  the  neighboring 
country  lor  many  a  mile  around,  which,  for  a  tliousand 
years  it  held  in  awe :  and,  at  its  base,  was  a  small  ham- 
let sheltered  by  surrounding  hills.  Like  other  structures 
of  the  age,  the  Castle  of  Chinon  had  its  dungeons  and  its 
oubliettes^ — its  fathomless  wells  descending  like  tunnels, 
s.ection  of  horror  below  section, — zone  below  zone, — into 
the  very  bowels  of  the  earth. 

It  had,  also,  its  winding  stairways,  practised  through 
the  depths  of  the  massive  masonry,  and  its  secret  pas- 
sages, and  its  subterranean  galleries.  One  of  these  latter 
is  said  to  have  gone  down  through  the  walls  of  the  castle, 
down  throuoh  the  solid  eras;  on  which  the  castle  sat, 
down  below  the  level  of  the  bed  of  the  Yienne.,  Thence, 
beneath  the  bed  of  that  stream,  it  continued  to  the  opposite 
bank,  and,  pursuing  its  midnight  course,  finally  emerged 
within  the  walls  of  a  convent  in  sight  of  the  castle,  when 


*  Now  Touraine  in  the  Department  of  Indre  et  Loire. 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CHIXOX. 


239 


descending  into  tlie  bo^'e'ls  of  the  earth,  it  pursued  :t& 
tenehrons  and  tortuous  route  to  the  Castle  of  Sauujur,  a 
dozen  miles  distant. 

Another  subterranean  passage  is  said  to  have  united 
the  Tower  of  Argenton  with  the  Ma'son  Euherdieu. — tiie 
residence  of  the  lovely  Agnes  Sorrel,  when  Chinon  was  a 
paiace  of  Cliaries  the  Seventh. 

This  castle  is  calied  the  French  AVindsor  of  the  Xor- 
man  Kings,  as  the  Abbey  of  Fonteuraud.  some  seven 
miles  distant  on  the  south,  was  tlieir  Westminster.  It 
was  a  favorite  spot  with  hienry  the  Second  of  England, 
and  witnessed  his  loves  witii  the  beautiful  Piosamond  Chf- 
f  jrd.  It  witnessed,  also,  his  feaiful  death  in  ll89.  when 
he  expired  Avith  a  curse  on  his  quivering  lips  against 
his  unnatural  sons  :  and  it  witnessed  the  death  of  the 
heir  to  his  crown.  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion^  ten  years 
afterwards,  when  the  form  of  the  valorous  son  was  laid 
at  the  feet  of  the  father  in  the  old  aisle  of  Fonteu- 
raud. 

Chinon  witnessed,  also,  the  loves  of  Francis  the  First 
of  France  and  the  fair  '■  Ferroniere^'  as  well  as  those 
of  Charles  the  Seventh  and  Agnes  Sorrel,  as  intimated. 
And  here  it  was  that  the  chivalric  Maid  of  Orleans,  in- 
troduced into  that  Prince's  presence,  selected  Iiirn  from 
among  ail  his  Xobles  as  the  true  Eling,  nnt  with  standing 
liis  disguise,  and  announced  to  him  her  holy  mission. 

Chinon,  too.  was  a  favorite  residence  of  Louis  tlie 
Eleventh  of  France  ;  and  it  was  Lere  he  proposed  to  the 
Count  of  Chabannes,  the  IMinister  of  his  father,  that 
parent's  assassination,  though  only  that  the  unnatural 


240 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CHINON. 


design  miglit  to  that  parent's  horror  be  revealed.  The 
fearflil  oubliettes^  of  winch  remains  yet  exist,  are  said  to 
have  been  sunk  immediately  beneath  that  monarch's 
chosen  apartments. 

The  view  from  the  battlements  of  the  lofty  towers  of 
the  Castle  of  Cliinon  is  described  as  most  extensive  and 
beantifnl, — embracing  an  immense  extent  of  conntrj^, 
through  which  flow  the  bright  waters  of  the  Loire  and 
Vienne,  with  the  white  walls  of  convents  and  chateau:?^ 
rising  among  the  forests  on  their  banks. 

Such  was  the  proud  Castle  of  Chinon,  when  it  became 
the  prison  of  the  Grand  Officers  of  the  Temple  in 
France. 

Into  the  dungeons  of  this  fearful  fortilace  were  these 
veterans  of  the  cross,  who  had  so  often  done  bloody  bat- 
tle for  Christendom  upon  a  foreign  shore,  now  plunged, 
and  loaded  with  chains. 

It  was  on  the  night  of  the  sixth  day  of  his  imprison- 
ment in  the  dungeons  of  Chinon,  that  Jacques  de  Molai 
was  aroused  from  a  troubled  slumber,  by  the  pressure 
of  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  the  glare  of  a  lamp 
in  his  face.  Starting  from  his  recumbent  position,  f\s 
well  as  his  manacles  would  permit,  he  fixed  his  search- 
ing eye  upon  the  intruder.  But  the  light  of  the  lantern 
was  so  managed  that,  while  its  beams  were  thrown  in 
full  gush  upon  his  own  features,  those  of  the  person  who 
held  it  remained  completely  in  shadow.  Of  the  shape 
he  could  only  define  the  irregular  outline  of  a  hum?ii 
figure,  robed  in  the  black  gown  of  a  monk  of  St. 
Pominic,  with  the  ample  cowl  drawn  closely  over  the 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CHIXOX. 


head:  and,  of  the  face,  he  could  perceive  only  two 
blazing  orbs,  which  gleamed  forth  in  the  darkness  like 
flame »from  perforations  in  a  fiery  furnace. 

For  some  moments  the  silence  was  unbroken.  A 
horrible  tliought  flashed  through  the  brain  of  the 
prisoner.  He  beheld  before  him  his  executioner!  Such 
midnight  murders  were  of  constant  occuri'ence  in  the 
Dark  Ages,  when  a  foe  was  too  powerfui.  or  too  popular, 
or  too  innocent  fjr  tlie  public  scafibld:  and  dungeon 
walls  were  deep  enough  to  absorb  every  dying  groan, 
and  ouhliettes  were  no  misnomers. — they  were,  inueed, 
chambers  of  oblivwn  ! 

For  an  instant  the  prisoners  heart  sank  within  him. 
To  die  by  tlie  assassin's  dagger  at  midnigLt,  in  the 
depths  of  a  dungeon,  loaded  witn  fetters,  his  fate  forever 
unknown,  yet  innocent  of  even  a  thought  of  crime — 
horrible  I  horrible!  Oli.  for  the  Avild.  wide,  scorcliing 
desert,  on^ce  more,  on  bis  wardiorse.  with  his  battie- 
brand  in  his  hand,  and  clouds  of  Pavnirn  foes  before 
him,  like  their  OAvn  clouds  of  locusts!  But  this  was  a 
mad  thought.  It  was  but  a  moment  indulged,  and  tlien 
that  brave  old  man  was  as  a  bronze  effigy,  on  some 
marble  tomb. 

iMethinks^'  my  friend."  said  de  iMolai.  calmly.  "  that 
you  have  chosen  a  somewhat  unusual  hour  to  visit  the 
inmate  of  a  dungeon.  It  is  true,  night  and  day  are  very 
much  the  same  down  here,  but  I  have  not  yet  been  an 
occupant  of  the  place  long  enough  not  to  know  that  it 
is  now  after  midnight.  What  do  you  here  at  this  hour? 
asked  the  old  man,  mildly,  after  pausing  for  a  reply. 


242 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CHINON. 


There  was  no  answer,  but  the  burning  orbs  like  flick- 
ering flames  still  rested  on  his  face. 

"  If  you  are  an  officer  of  the  castle — the  Governor,  or 
on,e  of  the  warders,"  continued  de  Molai,  calmly,  "it  is 
strange  you  are  here  at  an  hour  like  this;  and  it  is  still 
more  strange  that  I  heard  not  the  clash  of  chains,  and 
the  thunder  of  bolts,  which  invariably  herald  one's 
approach.  I  must  have  slumbered  very  soundly.  I 
slept  not  thus  in  Palestine." 

There  was  still  no  answer. 

"  Oh,  it's  all  very  well,"  continued  the  old  Templar, 
carelessly.  "  If  you  do  not  choose  to  announce  your 
errand,  Sir  Warder,  I  am,  of  course,  quite  unable  to 
compel  you.  But  I  can  address  myself  to  sleep  again, 
which,  methinks,  may  prove  somewhat  more  profitable 
than  addressing  myself  to  you." 

And  the  old  knight  seemed  disposing  himself  again 
in  a  sleeping  posture,  upon  his  heap  of  straw. 

"I  am  no  w^arder,  Jacques  de  Molai!" 

"Ila!  a  woman's  voice!"  cried  the  Grand  Master  in 
astonishment.    "  A  woman  here  f  " 

"Aye,  sir — a  woman  here!  " 

"And  why?" 

"  To  save  you, — if  you  will  be  saved." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  and  smiled. 

"No  woman's  will  can  save  Jacques  de  Molai  1  '* 

There  was  a  low  laugh  beneath  the  hood. 

"  And  if  you  were  told  that  a  woman's  will  had  filled 
the  dungeons  of  all  France  with  your  order,  and  com- 
mitted you,  their  chief,  to  this  ?  " 


THE  CASTLE  CF  CHIXOX. 


243 


"  I  slioulJ  say  it  was  a  lie ! was  tlie  quick,  stern  answer. 
''And   vet,  it   is  even  sol"  proudiy   rejoined  the 
unknown, 

De  ^^lolai  gazed  witli  angry  increduloiisness  on  one  lie 
deemed  a  false  and  presumptuous  boaster. 

"But  I  am  not  here  to  satisfy  doubts,  nor  to  over- 
come tiiein  with  arguments."  she  continued,      Mv  pur- 
pose is  other,  higher.    Jacques  de  Molai.  do  you  know 
tiiat  your  doom  is  sealed?"' 
I  had  hoped  J  mad  a  me  

''Do  vou  know  that  your  order  is  to  be  swept  from 
the  earth  ?  " 

*'Holy  St.  Bernard  I ejaculated  the  old  man,  clasping 
his  ironed  hands. 

"Do  you  know  tliat  each  Templar  in  France  is  to  be 
stretched  upon  the  rack,  with  you,  their  chief,  at  their 
head:  and.  if  they  confess  the  horrible  guilt  oF  which 
they  are  accused,  they  are,  in  rnei'cy,  to  be  burned  at  the 
stake:  and,  if  not,  they  are  to  perish  by  extremest  tor- 
ture of  the  Question  Chamber?    Do  you  know  this?"' 

^idie  old  man  sank  back  upon  his  heap  of  straw,  and 
covered  his  hice  with  his  hands,  while  a  low  groan 
mino'led  with  the  sullen  clank  of  his  fetters. 

For  himself  he  could  endure  torture — the  stake  :  he 
was  old,  and  must  soon  die  at  the  best:  but  his  beloved 
orler — his  beloved  sons,  as  he  called  its  companions — 
for  them  his  heart  agonized  and  bled. 

F'^r  some  moments  the  Grand  Master  remained  silent, 
as  it  in  tiionght,  during  which  his  unwelcome  visitor 
llxed  upon  him,  in  equal  silence,  her  burning  regard. 


244 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CHI^TOl^. 


*'  Bat,  no  —no — no — tliis  cannot  be/'  he  at  length 
exclaimed.  "  Tbey  luill  not  do  that,  !  They  dare  not  I  " 
he  added  in  tones  of  menace.  "  We  have  appealed  to 
Rome  !  Let  our  persecutors  beware  of  Rome's  thun- 
der !  Madame,  madame  !  "  cried  De  Molai,  "  who  are 
you?  Why  are  you  here?  If  yon  think  to  trifle  with 
the  natural  tremors  of  an  aged  man,  laden  with  irons 
and  immured  in  a  dungeon,  you  mistake  tliat  man  I 
Who  are  you,  madame?  " 

There  was  no  reply,  but  the  unknown  drew  slowly 
from  her  delicate  hand  a  massive  signet  ring,  and  held  it 
up  in  the  light  of  the  lantern  before  the  prisoner's  eyes. 

"The  royal  seal  of  France  !  "  despairingly  murmured 
tlie  old  man.    "  What  would  yoii^  madame?  "  he  asked. 

"Grand  Master  of  the  Templars,  what  would  ?/ow.^  " 
was  tlie  rejoinder. 

"  The  salvation  of  my  beloved  order !  "  fervently 
ejaculated  the  old  chieftain,  raising  his  eyes  with  his 
clasped  hands  to  Heaven. 

"I  am  here  to  save  tliat  order,"  said  the  other. 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  de  Molai. 

"  I  am.  here  to  deliver  you,  and,  with  you,  all  your 
knights,  from  the  dungeon  and  the  rack,  and  to  reinstate 
you  in  all  your  ancient  affluence,  rank,  immunities,  and 
powers ;  and  to  add  to  them,  if  possible,  ten-fold." 

"  A  dream  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  Templar,  pressing  his 
broad  palm  to  his  brow. 

"No,  Jacques  de  Molai,  this  is  no  dream!  "  was  the 
reply.  "  The  great  seal  of  France ' should  assure  you 
that  my  words  are  not  idle  fancies." 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CHIXOX. 


245 


"And  the  condition  of  this  salvation?"  asked  he. 
''Know  you  Adrian  de  Marigni,  Count  Le  Portier  ? 
asked  the  unknown. 

The  old  man  was  silent. 

"  Know  YOU  Blanche  of  Artois,  Countess  of  Marche  ?  " 
repeated  the  Lady. 

The  old  man  was  still  silent. 

''Behold  her  here  1 "  exclaimed  the  unknown,  tliro^\'iD2f 
back  the  hood  of  her  priestl}^  robe,  and  revealing  a  face 
whose  pale  loveliness,  as  lighted  up  b\'  the  fidl  gleam  of 
the  lantern,  now  turned  toAvards  it,  contrasted  strangely 
with  the  damp  dungeon  walls  around. 

TTitli  a  groan  of  despair  Jacques  de  Molai  sank  back 
on  the  straw  of  his  pallet,  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands.  In  an  instant  he  comprehended  all !  All — alas, 
for  him  I — was  revealed. 

''Jacques  de  Molai,"  resumed  tlie  Princess,  in  tones  of 
intense  solemnity,  '"hear  me  I  When,  first  you  heard  a 
woman's  voice,  at  midnight  in  your  dungeon,  you  were 
amazed.  Bat,  when  you  leain  that  A\-oman  is  the 
Countess  of  Marche,  you  are  amazed  no  more.  AVhv? 
Because,  Jacques  de  Molai,  yom  happen  to  know  of  that 
proud  and  powerful,  yet  most  unhappy  woman,  a  dread- 
ful secret  I  Because  you.  chief  of  tlie  Tem}ilars,  chance, 
to  know  that  thisAVoman's  lover  is  a  companion  of  vour 
order,  and,  therefore,  amenable  to  its  p'Owerfhl  Eale. 
Cuief  of  the  Templars,  Blanche  of  Artois  is  here  to 
crave  of  you  the  life  and  liberty  of  that  lover,  and.  in 
exchange,  to  give  you  your  own,  and  those  of  all  your 
knights!"' 


243 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CHINON. 


Bat  de  Molai  spake  not. 

"Doubt  not  tliat  all  I  have  promised  sliallbe  fulfilled." 
slie  continued.  "  Mj  influence  with  the  King  of  France 
is  never  exerted  vainly  ;  and  his  power  over  Clement 
Fifth. — -in  this  matter  at  least, — is  resistless." 

Do  Molai  uttered  a  groan.  His  last  hope  failed! 
Eome  deserted  the  Temple  ! 

"Unknown  and  unsuspected  have  I  escaped  from  tlie 
Louvre,  from  Paris,  and  si)ed  to  this  distant  fortress. 
Unknown  and  unsuspected  by  all  within  these  walls  am 
I  here ;  unknown  and  unsuspected,  when  my  mission  is 
accomplished,  I  am  without  these  walls,  and  again  am 
found  within  the  Palace  of  the  Louvre,  or,  rather  within 
the  Palace  of  the  Temple,  for  even  there  now  doth  Philip- 
hold  his  Court !" 

Again  the  old  man  groaned. 

Alas!  for  the  desecrated  sanctuary!  Alas!  for  that 
holy  and  ancient  house  ! 

"  Jacques  de  Molai,"  continued  the  Countess,  after  a 
pause,  "  I  am  here  to  demand  my  lover,  Adrian  de 
Marigni.  I.  do  not  ash  if  you  know  where  he  is  :  I  Icnow 
you  do,  though  J,  alas  !  do  not !  Yainly,  in  secret  and 
alone,  have  I  searclied  every  dungeon,  and  oubliette^  and 
cell  of  that  awful  pile,  which,  through  my  influence,  for 
that  very  end,  was  captured,  and  its  yqyj  penetralia  laid 
open  to  the  eye.  I  do  not  ask  if  my  lover  be  in  your 
power ;  of  that,  too,  am  I  sure — if,  indeed,  he  j^et 
remains  in  the  power  of  man.  But  I  ask  you  if  he  lives  ? 
I  ask  of  3^ou  the  name  of  his  dungeon !  I  ask  of  you 
his  liberty  and  his  life  !  " 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CHIXON* 


247 


Be  Molai  spake  not  a  word,  but  covered  liis  face  with 
his  Lands, 

Oil,  sir,  I  entreat — -I  implore  yon,  answer  me  !  " 
wildly  ejaculated  the  Countess,  sinking  on  ker  knees 
upon  tke  damp  dungeon  floor  beside  tkat  stern  and 
manacled  man,  and  raising  her  clasped  and  snowy  hands 
and  streaming  eyes  before  him.  "In  tke  name  of  all 
tkat  is  most  dear  to  you — in  tke  name  of  your  beloved 
order — in  tke  name  of  tke  koly  St.  Bernard,  its  patron 
saint — in  tke  name  of  Godfrey  Adelman,  its  pious 
founder — 'in  tke  name  of  the  Holy  Sepulckre,  for  tke 
defence  of  which  it  was  instituted,  and  for  wkick,  like 
water,  it  has,  for  two  centuries,  poured  out  its  blood — in 
tke  name  of  ker  wko  bore  yon,  or  of  ker  you  once  loved 
— T  beseeck  jou,  kear  me!  Give  me  back  my  Adrian! 
restore  me  my  lover!  spare  kis  life!  forgive  kis  oft'ence  ! 
and,  ok,  bj^  tke  IIol\^  ^[otker,  I  kere  swear  to  you,  never 
—never  skall  ke  thus  offend  again!  I  ask  kim  not  for 
myself!  I  ask  gnly  kis  life  and  kis  libei'ty,  forever  to  be 
consecrated  to  your  noble  order  !  I  yield  kis  love — kis 
person — kis  presence — all — all  most  precious  to  me  !  I 
know — T  know  his  crime  against  tke  pure  Eale  of  your 
order  lias  been  terrible  !  But  he  was  not  in  fault!  indeed 
it  was  not  he!  I — T  alone  am  guilty  for  tke  violation 
of  that  vow — of  his  vow  as  well  as  my  own  ! Tke  pale 
face  of  the  Countess  suddenly  flushed,  and  she  covered 
it  with  ker  kands.  "He  souo;kt  not  me,  it  was  I  that 
sought  him  !  It  was  I,  too,  who  m.ade  kim  a  com])anion 
of  your  order !  Alas !  I  knew  not  Avkat  I  did !  I 
meant  only  to  prevent  his  marriage  to  another.  And 


248 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CHINON. 


yet,  liavir.g  imposed  on  liim  those  terrible  vows,  it  was 
I,  wretch  !  who  tempted  him  to  tlieir  violation  !  Oli,  if 
there  must  be  a  sacrifice  to  your  insulted  Rule,  accept 
me  1  If  there  must  needs  be  penalty  for  crime,  on  me- — • 
on  me  let  it  fall!  He  is  innocent!  I  only  am  guilty! 
Oh,  sir,  be  merciful — be  merciful !  Give  me  back  my 
lover !  " 

Breathless,  the  Countess  paused.  The  chief  of  the 
Templars  spake  not. 

"  It  must,  I  know,  seem  a  strange  thing  to  you," 
resumed  Blanche,  with  a  wild,  sad  smile,  "  that  the 
proud  Countess  of  Marche  should  thus  be  kneeling  beside 
you — a  doomed  and  manacled  man, — on  the  mouldy  straw 
of  a  damp  dungeon,  at  midnight,  alone,  pouring  out  a 
confession  which  has  never  left  her  lips  before,  no,  not 
even  to  her  God  ;  and  which,  if  only  whispered  beyond 
these  rugged  walls,  would  consign  her  head  to  the  block, 
-and  her  name  to  infamy !  It  is  strange — it  is  strange ! 
And  all  this  should  assure  you  how  m^d  and  des|)erate 
this  wretched  heart  of  mine  must  be,  if  not  " — and  she 
pressed  her  white  hand  to  her  forehead — "if  not  my 
'brain,  also.  But  men  never  know,  and  will  not  believe, 
all  a  woman  will  dare  for  one  she  loves.  And  yet,  were 
not  all  this  even  so,  I  would  entrust  to  you^  terrible  man, 
a  secret  which  I  would  not  entrust  to  the  dread  vows  of 
the  confessional  itself!  Your  vows  are  more  dread  than 
those — your  obligations  are  more  awful !  But  Adrian — 
Adrian,  tell  me,"  and  she  pressed  her  delicate  fingers 
earnestly  on  the  iron  hand  of  the  Templar,  knitted 
together  of  bone,  and  sinew,  and  muscle,  and  denuded  of 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CHIXOjS". 


'249 


-all  flesh,  "tell,  oh,  tell  me,"  she  wildly  implored,  ''where 
— where — where  is  my  Adrian?  " 

The  soldier-monk  answered  to  this  toiichino-  heart- 
broken  entreaty  not  a  word. 

"  Tell  me — is  he  yet  in  Paris  ?  in  France  ?  in  Eui'ope  ? 
in  a  Christian  land  ? 

Still  there  Avas  no  ansAver. 

"  Is  he  imprisoned,  or  is  he  free  ?  " 

There  was  no  reply.  The  Templar  lay  with  his  hands 
over  his  face  like  the  marble  effigies  on  some  crusaders 
tomb. 

"  Tell  me  ! — tell  me  ! — tell  me  !  "  almost  shrieked  the 
frantic  Princess;  "does  Adrian  de  Marigni  yet  live?  " 

The  wild  words  fell  back  from  the  damp  and  dreary 
walls  like  lead  upon  the  ear.  There  were  no  echoes 
there  to  awaken. 

For  some  moments  Blanche  of  Artois  remained  on  her 
knees,  the  image  of  supplication,  beside  the  prostrate 
and  motionless  Templar.  Then  slowly  upon  her  mind 
seemed  to  creep  a  dreadful  suspicion — a  fearful  thought; 
and,  as  that  Avild  presentiment  passed  her  brain,  the  soft 
ex[)ression  of  entreaty  faded  away  from  her  beautiful 
face;  and,  in  its  stead,  tliere  gathered  a  blackness  on  the 
brow,  an  intense  fierceness  on  the  compressed  lip,  and  in 
tlie  eye  concentrated  a  lustre  like  the  glare  of  a  maniac. 

Slowly,  sternly,  firmlj^  she  arose  to  her  feet,  anddraw- 
ino-  around  her  the  coarse  sero-e,  which,  in  her  agitation, 
had  fallen  from  her  snoAvy  shoulders,  and  drawing  over 
her  face  the  Dominican  hood,  she  took  up  the  lantern 
and  quietly  turned  to  depart. 


250 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CHINON. 


Retreating  inlo  the  shadows  at  tlie  extremity  of  tlie 
duugeon,  her  foiTii  was  lost  in  gloom.  TLieii  raising  tlie 
lantern  and  suffering  its  full  beams  to  pour  upon  lier 
livid,  yet  lovely  face,  and  Ler  blazing  eyes,  she  said  in 
low  and  solemn  tones  : 

"Jacques  de  Molai,  farewell !  Thou  liast  sealed  tliine 
own  doom  !  In  the  dungeon — on  the  rack — at  tlie  stake 
• — amid  the  ruins  of  thine  order  and  all  most  dear  to 
thee,  thou  wilt  remember  Blanche  of  Artois  !  " 

The  voice  ceased— the  light  went  ou.t — a  sudden  blast 
of  fresh  air,  as  from  a  subterranean  passage,  rushed  into 
the  cell — a  rumbling  like  thunder  shook  the  vault  I 
Jacques  de  Molai  was  alone ! 


THE  COMPROMISE. 


251 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  COMPROMISE. 

THE  arrest  of  the  Kniglits  Templar  by  Pliilip  of 
France  seat  a  tlirill  of  liorror  tliroughout  all 
Ciiristendom  ! 

In  tlie  first  burst  of  passion,  tlie  Sovereign  Pontiff 
despatched,  as  liis  Legates,  from  Avignon  to  Paris,  Car- 
dinals De  Prato  and  Gentil  de  Moutesiore,  with  ample 
powers,  at  once  to  remove  William  of  Paris,  Inquisitor- 
General  from  office,  and  to  inhibit  the  Prelates  of  France 
from  all  cognizance  or  authority  in  the  affairs  of  tlie 
Templars.  The  proceedings  ah'oady  had,  he  declared  a 
guilty  encroach nient  on  the  rights  of  the  Papal  See.  To 
the  King,  also,  he  addressed  a  mandate,  condemning  in 
severe  terms  the  presumption  of  arresting  the  members 
of  an  order,  wdiose  only  Supreme  was  the  Pope;  and  bid- 
ding him,  at  once,  surrender  into  the  jurisdiction  of  his 
Legates,  the  persons  and  the  effects  of  his  children,  the 
Templar  Knights. 

Prior  to  the  arrest  of  the  Templars  in  France,  Philip, 
at  the  instance  of  the  Countess  of  Marche,  had  sent  a 
priest  named  Bernard  Peletus,  bearing  lettei's  addressed 
to  Edward  of  England,  stimulating  him  to  make  the 
same  arrest,  on  the  same  day,  of  all  members  of  the 
order  found  within  his  reahn.  Letters  were  also  ad- 
dressed, by  the  same  advice,  at  the  same  time  and  to 
16 


-252 


THE  COMPROMISE. 


tlie  same  end,  to  Ferdinand  of  Aragon,  and  Henry  of 
Lnxembourg,  Emperor  of  Germany ;  likewise  to  the 
sovereigns  of  Castile,  Portugal  and  Sicily. 

Before  the  Court  and  Council  of  England,  tlie  charges 
against  tlie  Templars  were  at  once  laid;  and,  while  the 
utmost  astonishment  was  expressed,  investigation  was 
furnished.  Edward,  however,  immediately  wrote  to  the 
Kings  of  Portugal,  Castile,  Aragon,  and  Sicilj^,  and,  also, 
to  the  Emperor  and  the  Pope,  imploring  them  to  lend 
no  credeiice  to  the  malicious  and  infamous  calumnies 
against  the  Knights  of  the  Eed  Cross,  who  had  been  the 
steadfast  allies  of  his  throne,  and  the  friends  of  the 
liberties  of  his  people,  before  the  day,  and  since  the  day 
as  well  as  on  the  day,  when  Almeric  of  St.  Maur,  Grand 
Prior  of  England,  had  stood  on  the  held  of  Kunny  Mead, 
and  demanded  of  King  John  the  Magna  Charta — 
Almeric,  that  illustrious  knight,  who  passed  his  last 
hours  in  the  Grand  Temple  of  his  order  in  London ;  and, 
with  all  the  pomp  and  prestige  of  the  period  was  laid 
to  his  rest  by  Templar  hands,  with  Templar  rites,  in 
the  Temple  church.* 

But,  subsequently  to  this,  the  fickle  Edward  issued 
an  order  dated  on  the  Feast  of  Epiphany,  December  15, 
1808,  for  the  summonino-  of  all  his  sheriffs  tlirouohout 
the  realm,  to  assemble  on  a  certain  day,  at  certain  places  ; 
and,  on  that  day,  at  those  places,  the  sheriffs  thus  assem- 
bled, were  sworn,  suddenly  to  execute  a  certain  sealed 
order,  then  and  there  to  be  delivered,  so  soon  as  opened. 

*"Tlie  Templars,"  says  Addison,  "were  always  buried  in  the  habit  of 
their  order,  a  long  wliite  mantle  with  a  red  cross  over  the  left  breast; 
and  thus  are  they  represented  in  the  marble  effigies  on  their  tombs." 


'THE  COMPROMISE. 


253 


This  order  was  the  arrest  of  the  Templars ;  and,  at  the 
same  hoar,  oq  the  same  day,  throughout  England,  Scot- 
land, Ireland  and  Wales,  all  members  of  that  order  were 
thrown  into  prison  on  charge  of  apostacy  to  the  altar, 
and  treason  to  the  throne  ;  and  their  vast  estates  were 
attached!  For  months  they  remained  in  durance  in 
various  castles  and  towers.  At  length,  October,  1309, 
by  mandate  of  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  forty-seven 
of  the  noblest  of  the  order  were  brought  from  the  Tower 
before  Ecclesiastical  Courts  at  London,  York  and  Lin- 
coln, over  which  presided  the  Bishop  of  London  and 
the  Envoys  of  the  Pope.  Against  their  bold  plea  of 
innocence  nothing  was  proven ;  on  the  contrary,  most 
irrefutable  evidence  of  their  irreproachable  character 
and  conduct  was  adduced  from  the  lips  of  clergy,  as  well 
as  laity.  But  they  were  not  released,  and,  shortly  after, 
came  from  the  Court  of  France  suggestions  of  Torture^ 
to  elicit  confession  !  But,  when  the  Archbishop  of  York 
dared  to  ask  his  Chapter  whether  torture, — hitherto 
unheard  of  on  the  soil  of  England, — might  be  used 
against  the  Templars,  inquiring  if  a  Machine  might  be 
sent'forfrom  abroad,  as  there  was  not  one  in  the  land, — - 
he  received  a  reply  which  silenced  the  demand ! 

After  threa  years  of  close  incarceration,  however,  most 
of  the  Templars  made  a  vague  renunciation  of  heresy 
and  erroneous  opinions,  and  were  sent  to  various  monas- 
teries, with  a  pittance  from  their  immense  revenues  for 
their  support ;  and,  finally,  their  estates  were  yielded  to 
the  Knights  of  St.  John.*    But,  no  menaces,  no  promises, 


*  In  1323. 


-254 


THE  COMPROMISE. 


mo  dungeons,  no  sufferings,  could  move  William  de  la  ' 
Moore,  the  Grand  Prior  of  England  ;  and  lie,  with  three 
other  heroic  men,  boldly  and  loudly  proclaimed  their 
innocency,  and  that  of  their  oi  der  to  the  very  last. 

The  whole  number  of  Templars  arrested  by  Edward 
seems  to  have  been  bat  two  hundred  and  fifty.  Of 
these,  thirty  were  seized  in  Ireland,  and  but  two  in  Scot- 
land. In  England,  the  order  had  some  seven  or  eight 
P]"ece|)tories,  of  which  the  celebrated  Temple  at  London 
was  chief.  The  estates  of  the  Templars  in  England  were, 
however,  immense  in  every  county,  and  far  exceeded 
those  of  the  Hospitalers;  while  the  Prior  of  London 
was  first  baron  of  the  realm  in  the  House  of  Lords. 

The  King  of  Aragon,  James  the  Second,  was  earnestly 
pressed  by  the  Court  of  France  to  follow  in  the  steps  of 
Philip.  But  his  unchanging  answer  was  this.  "First 
convince  me  of  the  guilt  of  the  Templars, — then,  I  will 
provide  a  penalty."  Forced  by  the  violence  of  the 
people,  the  Templars  retired  for  safety  to  the  fortresses 
erected  by  themselves  to  defend  the  country  against  the 
Moors.  Thence  they  petitioned  the  Holy  Father  to 
protect  his  children  against  the  infamous  charges  fiilsely 
preferred  against  them,  insisting  on  the  purity  of  their 
faith,  in  defence  of  which  they  had  so  often  shed  their 
best  blood  ;  that  multitudes  of  Templars  were  even  then 
captive  to  the  Moors,  who,  on  abjuration  of  their  faith, 
w^ould,  at  once,  be  liberated;  and  thus  the  same  men 
were  consigned  to  torture  by  Infidels  as  Christians,  and 
by  Christians  as  Infidels;  and,  finally,  they  entreated 
either  the  proteetion  of  liome,  or,  to  be  permitted  to 


THE  "COMPROMISE. 


255 


protect  themselves,  as  tliey  ever  Lad  done,  and,  in  fair 
field  to  .make  good  their  cause,  with  their  own  right 
hands.  To  all  this  Clement  replied  not ;  but  the  King 
of  Aragon,  having  received  at  his  first  summons  one  of 
their  fortresses  in  his  realm,  and  being  desired  only  to 
afford  them  a  just  trial,  took  the  order  in  his  kingdom 
under  his  royal  protection.  He,  also,  forbade  all  insult 
or  injury  to  the  Templars,  under  severe  penalty, — an- 
nouncing to  all  comers  his  readiness  to  receive  charges 
against  the  order;  but,  warning  tliem  that  if  those 
charges  were  not  sustained,  the  accusers  themselves 
should  suffer  the  tortures  they  invoked. 

But  James  of  Aragon  was  not,  in  the  end,  proof 
against  the  omnipotent  influence  that  emanated  from  the 
Louvre  any  more  than  was  Edward  of  England ;  and 
■despite  all  his  protestations  and  covenants,  he,  at  length, 
arrested  the  knights  of  the  persecuted  order  wherever 
they  could  be  found,  and,  ha\dng  detained  them  in 
various  castles  tliey  had  themselves  erected  against  his 
foes,  in  long  imprisonment,  at  last  resigned  tliem  for 
trial  by  the  Bishop  of  Valencia,  upon  which  trial  they 
shared  the  sentence  of  their  brethren  in  England  and 
Prance. 

In  Germany,  wlien  the  mandate  for  abolishing  the 
order  was  about  to  be  read  by  the  Archbishop  of 
Metey  to  his  assembled  Chapter,  suddenly  into  that 
priestly  conclave  strode  Wallgruffer,  Count  Sauvage, 
Grand  Prior  of  the  Temple  of  the  Empire,  followed  by 
twenty  knights,  in  full  costunae  of  the  order,  and,  like 
himself,  fully  armed, — who,  in  stern  tones,  appealed  from 


256 


THE  COMPROMISE. 


all  mandates  whatsoever,  whetlier  of  Pope  or  potentate, 
to  the  General  Council  announced  to  be  liolden  at 
Yienne.  The  appeal  was  recorded,  and,  after  long  and 
tedious  examination,  the  Templars  oF  tbat  province 
were  ultimately  pronounced  innocent  of  the  charges 
preferred.*  But  their  estates  were  never  restored  them, 
and  their  order  was  finally  blended  with  those  of  the 
Knights  of  Malta  and  the  Teuton 'c  Knights, — the  white 
costume  of  the  Soldiers  of  the  Temple  being  exchanged 
for  the  black  habit  of  those  of  St.  John. 

Thus  was  the  influence  of  the  Louvre  felt  by  Henry 
of  Luxembourg,  hero  though  he  was,  not  less  than  by 
every  other  sovereign  of  Europe! 

In  a  similar  manner  were  the  charges  preferred  by  the 
King  of  France  entertained  by  the  sovereigns  of  Portu- 
gal, Castile  and  Sicily, — at  first,  with  amazement,  incre- 
dulity, and  indignation;  but,  at  last,  through  that  potent 
influence  which  none  seemed  able  to  resist,  in  each  of 
these  kingdoms,  as  in  England,  Aragon  and  Germany,  the 
doomed  and  dreaded  order  was  suppressed.  In  Portugal 
the  persecution  was  less  severe  than  in  any  other  king- 
dom of  the  Continent;  but  there,  for  the  title  "Soldiers 
'of  the  Temple,"  was  substituted  "  Soldiers  of  Christ," 
under  which  name  the  order  now  exists. 

As  may  be  inferred,  the  stern  and  indignant  mandate 
of  Clement,  arresting  the  arbitrary  proceedings  against 
the  Templars  in  Fj  ance,  was  not  very  quietly  received  by 
a  man  like  Philip  the  Fourth.    At  first,  he  utterly  refused 


*  At  Mentz  the  orcler  was  pronminced  innocent.  Tlie  Wildgraf  Fiedeiic, 
Preceptor  on  the  liliine,  ottered  to  undergo  tlie  ordeal  of  red-hot  iron ! 


THE  COMPROMISE. 


25T 


to  receive  the  Apostolic  Legates;  but,  after  a  long  and 
close  consultation  with  the  Countess  of  Marche,  he 
vouchsafed  them  an  audience,  in  Avhich  he  communi= 
cated  a  message  for  immediate  transmission  to  their 
master  and  his. 

In  this  communication,  Philip  boldly  declared  that 
he  had  done  nothing  in  the  matter  of  the  Templars  but 
at  the  bidding  of  an  officer  of  the  Papal  Court, — Wd- 
liam  Imbert,  Grand  Inquisitor  at  Paris,  and  that  the  sus- 
pension of  that  monk  from  his  powers,  because  of  his  zeal 
for  the  church,  tended  dangerously  to  fortily  the  corrupt 
and  impious  order  he  had  assailed.  As  fur  the  Prelates 
of  France,  who  had  received  their  power  in  direct  suc- 
cession from  St.  Peter,  and  who,  in  conjunction  with  the 
Bishop  of  Rome,  wei'e  commissioned  to  shield  Cod's 
Church  from  heresy,  they,  he  declared,  vicAVcd  the  inhi- 
bition of  the  Holy  Father  of  the  discharge  of  their 
assumed  functions  as  an  undisguised  infringe: nent  upon 
their  spiritual  franchise,  and  betrayed  an  evident  disposi- 
tion to  disregard  the  mandate.  For  himself,  his  corona- 
tion oath  to  God  had  record  in  Heaven,  and  no  earthly 
power  could  force  him  to  disregard  it.  That  the 
Templar  Knights  were  guilty  of  the  corrupt  and  flagi- 
titous  practices  of  the  which  they  Avere  chai'ged,  was,  he 
said,  by  many  of  them,  confessed ; — that  God  detested 
those  Avho  were  neither  hot  nor  cold,  Avas  a  tenet  of 
Catholic  faith;  that  not  to  punish  crhn3  promptly  was 
partially  to  approve  it; — and,  that  this  was  not  the  tlrst 
time  France  had  been  in  conflict  with  Eome,  because  the 
Pontiff  usurped  the  powers  of  the  Prince,  though  ifc 


258 


THE  COMPROMISE. 


miglit  be  the  last,  and  tlie  issue  of  tbe  contest  with 
Clement  F  fth  might  prove  not  unlike  to  that  with 
'Boniface  Eighth.  Finally,  in  unmistakeable  proof  of  the 
pietj  and  purit}^  of  bis  own  motives,  as  well  as  of  a 
disposition  in  all  things  to  obey  his  Holy  Father,  the 
King  announced  his  surrender  to  the  Papal  ministers  of 
the  persons  and  property  of  the  Templars,  provided 
always,  that  they  should  still  i-emain  under  the  control 
of  his  own  Provosts  and  Police,  and  in  the  dungeons  of 
his  own  prisons ! 

Immediately  on  the  despatch  of  this  missive,  Philip 
issued  writs  convening  the  States  of  liis  Kingdom,  at  the 
city  of  Tours,  on  the  Loire,  in  the  Oi'leannois,  to  confer 
on  matters  of  vast  moment  to  the  realm,  on  the  ensuing 
Tenth  of  May. 

To  Philip  the  Fourth  did  France  owe  the  institution 
of  Parliament  and  the  moi"e  fiequent  convention  of 
States  General  than  had  ever  before  been  known.  ''J'o 
him,  also,  despite  all  his  own  despotic  acts,  does  Paris 
owe  the  establishment  of  Ler  most  efl&cacious  tribunals 
for  the  administration  of  justice,  and  the  formation  of 
lier  most  respectable  body  of  magistrates.  By  the  62nd 
Article  of  an  edict  of  March  18th,  1303,  he  gave  Parlia- 
ments to  France,  one  of  which  was  prescribed  to  be 
holden  in  Paris  twice  every  year.  At  first,  the  officers 
and  members  were  of  his  own  nomination.  They  were 
removed  by  him  at  pleasure,  and  from  him  they  received 
the  remuneration  for  their  services;  while  they  em- 
bodied all  the  lords  spiritual  and  temporal  of  the  realm. 


THE  COMPRO^IISE.: 


259 


Sabsequently  clerks  and  coansellors  learned  in  the 
law  were  admitted.* 

At  Tours,  the  assemblage  of  delegates  was  unusuallj 
large.  The  King  presided  in  person,  and  William  de 
Is'ogaret,  the  Lord  Chancellor,  detailed,  at  length,  all  the 
charges  preferred  against  the  Templars,  and  the  proofs 
collected  in  their  snpport.  The  I'esult  was,  of  course, 
inevitable, — unqualified  approval  of  the  past,  and  equally 
unqualified  warrant  for  the  future,  of  all  roval  acts. 

Sustained  by  this  triumpli,  Piiilip  repaired  at  once 
from  the  city  of  Tours,  with  all  his  ministry,  to  the 
city  of  Poitiers,  where  now  was  abiding  the  A[iostolio 
See. 

The  interview  between  Clement  Fiftli  and  Philip 
Fourth,  whicli  immediately  ensued,  was  of  a  diameter 
tempestuous  in  the  extreme.  But  botli  men  were  too 
Avorldh'-wise  to  sacrifice  interest  to  feeling.  Passion 
soon,  therefore,  yielded  to  policy,  and  the  Templar 
Knights  were,  of  course,  the  saci'ifice  to  tlie  compromise. 
Eacli  party,  alil^e,  and  e  [uall}',  dreaded  a  contest,  such  as 
had  convulsed  Euro[)e  during  the  variance  between  the 
King  of  France  and  Boniface  Eighth,  and  so  greatly 
shaken  the  power  of  both.  Clement  was  warned  by  the 
dreadful  doom  of  Boniface,  and  Philip  remembered  the 
terrible  significance  of  Papal  anathema, — that  "  thunder- 
bolt which  shook  thrones  and  affrighted  nations," — 
which  stripped  the  altar  of  its  reliques,  and  the 
churches  of  tlieir  bells, — which  interdicted  all  sacra- 

*  In  other  parts  of  Europe,  liunian  rights  seem  to  have  been  somewhat 
acknowledged,  at  this  era,  as  well  as  in  France,  The  Swiss  Kepublics  date 
from  130T. 


260 


TME  COMPR0MI3E. 


ments,  save  tlaat  of  baptism  to  the  infant,  and  the  viat- 
icum to  the  dying  ;--which  proclaimed  perpetual  Lent,— • 
denied  all  indulgence,  forbade  all  the  formalities  and  all 
tlie  consolations  of  religious  faith,  and  commanded,  on 
pain  of  eternal  perdition,  the  disobedience  of  all  the  laws 
of  the  banned  monarch,  by  all  Christian  souls  within  his 
realm  that  hoped  for  Heaven! 

The  result  of  the  interview  between  the  Pontiff  and 
the  Prince  was  this, — a  comjjromise  to  the  effect  that  the 
Templar  Knights  should  remain  in  the  custody  of 
Philip,  in  the  name  of  the  Papal  See,  the  Prelates  of 
France,  and  the  Holy  Catholic  Church:  that,  in  event  of 
final  confirmation  of  the  charges,  and  the  consequent 
abolition  of  the  order,  its  immense  estates  should  be 
devoted  to  the  recovery  of  the  Holy  Land, — meanwhile 
being  consigned  to  agents  of  the  Papal  See;  and,  finally, 
that  William  Tmbert  and  the  Inquisitor  of  Paris  should 
again  resume  those  functions  in  the  examination  of  the 
Templars,-  which  had  been  so  abruptly  suspended. 

To  the  unhappy- captives  tliis  compromise  brought  no 
relief.  Their  persons  remained  under  tlie  custody  and 
control  of  Philip,  while  their  property  was  committed  by 
the  Pope  to  the  charge  of  William  Pidoue  and  Eene 
BourdoUj  two  of  the  officers  of  the  Louvre  Household. 


THE  GAUNTLET." 


261 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  GAUNTLET, 

"TXTEARILY — wearih^  Avliilecl  away  the  wintry 
y  y  months  in  the  gloomy  dungeons  of  Chinon. 
Since  the  strange  visit  of  Blanche  of  Artois,  the  venera= 
ble  Grand  blaster  of  the  Templars  was,  indeed,  convinced 
that  his  own  doom,  as  well  as  the  doom  of  his  beloved 
order,  was  sealed.  He  was  convinced,  too,  that  h's 
doom  would  be  inflicted  through  the  agency  and  by  the 
influence  of  the  powerful  and  beautiful  woman,  wdio  had 
so  mysteriously  come  to  liim  at  midnight,  and  so  mys- 
teriously disappeared.  He  was  convinced,  during  his 
l^ng  hours  of  meditation, — and  he  had  many  such,  and 
ample  space  for  many  more, — that  Blanche  of  Artois 
co'uld,  indeed,  accomplish  all  she  promised — but  the 
conditions  of  that  promise! — not  for  a  single  instant  could 
they  be  entertained.  His  life— liberty — all  most  prized 
— -gladly — ^gladly  w^ould  that  noble  old  man  have  yielded, 
as  a  propitiatory  sacrifice  for  his  beloved  order;  but 
there  were  upon  him  vows  more  sacred  than  life,  or  even 
the  salvation  of  that  order  itself!  True,  he  Avas  the  de- 
pository of  a  fearful  secret,  a  secret,  which,  once  divulged, 
even  in  the  depths  of  his  dungeon,  or  on  the  rack  of  the 
Question  Chamber  of  Chinon,  would,  as  inevitablj^  as 
instantl}^,  crash  the  guilty 'woman  whose  insatiate  ven- 
geance, lilve  a  sleuth-hound,  tracked  him  up;  ami  even 


262- 


THE  GAUNTLET^ 


give  back,  perhaps,  to  himself  and  his  knights  their  lib- 
erties. But,  alas!  that  secret  was  too  closely  wedded  to 
those  vows  for  them  to  be  parted.  The  one  rendered 
inviolate  the  other.   The  insurance  was  mutual,^  and  sure. 

To  different  dungeons  in  the  Castle  of  Chinon  were 
consigned  the  different  officers  of  the  Temple, — the 
Grand  Master  of  the  Order  and  the  Grand  Priors  of 
Erance,  Normandy  and  Acquitaine.  But  De  Mohni 
sliortly  discovered  that  the  warder  assigned^to  his  dun- 
geon had  been  a  serving  brother  of  the  Temple,  and 
through  his  aid,  he  shortly  established  a  connection  with 
his  fellow  sufferers,  by  the  "  omnific  cipher "  of  the 
order, — thus  communicating  and  receiving  intelligence 
and  opinion,  as  touching  the  welfare  of  their  cause. 

Winter  had  passed  away  and  been  succeeded  by  the 
spring ;  this,  too,  had  passed,  and  been  followed  by  the 
soft  summer ;  and,  still,  the  rigorous  captivity  of  the 
Templar  chiefs  in  the  dungeons  of  Chinon  continued, 
without  hope  of  alleviation  or  close. 

At  length,  on  the  morning  of  the  seventh  day  of 
August,  1308,.  a  crumpled  fragment  of  linen,  covered 
with  mystic  characters,  was  placed  by  the  Templar  turn- 
key into  the  hands  of  Jacques  de  Molai,  the  significance 
of  which  made  him  start.  The  meaning  of  those  char- 
acters was  this : 

"Clement  deserts  us  ! — Imbert  tortures! — thirty-six 
Templars  have  expired  on  the  rack! — to-morrow  the 
Grand  Inquisitor  will  be  in  the  Question  Chamber  of 
Chinon!    What  shall  we  do  ?  Inri!"* 


*  The  signal-word  of  the  order. 


THE  GAUXTLET. 


263 


Instantly  tlie  old  man  traced  on  tliat  portion  of  tlie 
fragment  of  linen,  jet  unused,  a  single  cipher,  conveying 
this  sio-nificant  sentence : 

o 

"The  good  Templar  follows  his  chief! 

"  Thirty-six  Templars  have  expired  on  the  rack," 
tlionght  Jacques  de  Molai.  "The  extinction  of  the 
entire  order  by  torture,  is,  donbtless,  designed.  That 
guilty  woman's  threat  is  in  fulfillment!  This  must 
cease !  And,  then,  once  more — once  more  fi'ee,  and 
on  our  good  war-steeds,  battle-brand  in  hand,  we  may 
defy  a  world !  " 

The  intelligence  conveyed  by  the  mystic  cipher  was 
true.  The  next  dav. — beino- the  eighth  dav  of  August, 
T\"illiam  of  Paris  with  two  cardinal  Legates,  accom- 
panied by  De  Kogaret,  De  Marigni-,  De  Chatillon,  Ilexian 
de-Beziers,  the  Prior  of  Montfaucon,  and  the  sworn  Tor- 
mentor of  the  Inquisition  with  all  his  dark  familiars, 
arrived  at  Chinon,  and,  that  very  night,  the  Grand  Mas- 
ter of  the  Temphirs  was  brought  before  the  infamous, 
yet  most  imposing  conclave.^ 

Cliinon,  like  all  other  castles  of  the  age,  was  not  with- 
out its  Chamber  of  Torture,  amply  furnished  with  all 
the  fearful  inventions  of  the  period  for  the  production  of 
human  anguish. 

To  this  apartment  Jacques  cle  Molai  was  now  con- 

*  William  of  Paris,  or  "William  Imbert.  was  a  monk  of  St.  Dominic,  and  with 
his  wliole  order,  fresh  from  tlie  bloody  scenes  of  Languedoc  and  deeply 
versed  in  all  inquisitorial  arts  and  practices,  was  devoted,  with  all  his  soul, 
to  tlie  destruction  of  the  Templars.  De  Xogaret  was  the  murderer  of  B(mi- 
face  ;  and  Du  Plessis.  or  William  Plasian,  his  present  coadjutator,  had  assisted 
in  that  sacrilege,  and,  afterwards,  before  all  the  peers  and  prelates  of  France, 
had  borne  oath  that  their  victim  was  an  atheist  and  a  sorcerer  and  had  a 
familiar  demon ! 


264 


THE  GAUNTLET. 


ducted  hy  tlie  ministers  of  tlie  Inquisition.  It  was  a 
large  quadrangular  cliamber,  situated  in  tlie  centre  of 
the  ponderous  pile,  and  surrounded  by  walls  of  most 
massive  thickness,  witli  not  a  single  aperture,  save  the 
lovf -browed  entrance  with  its  iron  door.  In  the  centre 
was  a  heavy  table  of  oak,  around  which,  in  the  order  of 
a  council,  or  a  judicial  tribunal,  sat  the  Inquisitor  with 
his  spiritual  and  secular  satellites.  On  the  table  were 
parchments  and  materials  for  writing,  and  the  Prior  of 
Montfaugon  seemed  to  act  as  greffier,  or  clerk,  to  record 
the  proceedings. 

Tlie  apartment  was  but  dimly  lighted  by 'a  lamp  of 
iron,  which  swung  directly  over  the  table  by  a  rusty 
chain  from  the  arched  roof  of  ponderous  masonry,  drip- 
ping with  damps,  and  threw  its  sinister  and  nncertain 
glare  on  the  dark  conclave  below.  Each  of  the  members 
of  that  gloomy  tribunal,  whether  priest  or  layman,  was 
arrayed  in  the  full  costume  of  his  office  and  order. 

The  chamber  itself  seemed  separated  into  two  apart- 
ments, by  a  heavy  curtain  of  sable  serge  ;  and,  notwith- 
standing it  was  now  the  depth  of  summer,  a  coal  iire 
threw  its  blood-red  glare  from  a  grated  furnace  in  the 
depths  of  the  wall,  and  strove,  but  vainly  strove,  to  dispel 
the  sepulchral  damps,  as  well  as  to  aid  in  giving  the 
dungeon  light,  or,  rather,  in  rendering  its  darkness  more 
visible. 

Loaded  with  chains,  Jacques  de  Molai,  Grand  Master 
of  the  Templars,  strode  into  the  presence  of  this  fearful 
tribunal,  with  arms  folded  on  his  broad  breast,  and  with 
a  brow  as  serene,  and  a  step  as  firm  and  majestic,  and 


THE  GAUXTLET. 


265 


form  as  erect,  and  glance  as  bold,  as  lie  Lad  ever  trod 
the  floor  of  liis  own  Ciiapter-cliamber,  or  the  field  of 
Paynini  conflict. 

A  brief  delay  occurred,  when  he  was  thus  add^e55G^l 
by  the  Inquisitor  : 

"  Jacciues  de  Molai,  Grand  Master  of  the  Order  of 
Knights  of  the  Ternple,  otherwise  known  as  Cljevaliers 
of  the  Ternple,  otherwise  Icnown  as  Knights  of  tlie  Ecd 
Cross,  and,  by  themselves,  presumptuously  and  Viaspliern- 
ously,  entitled  '  Poor  Fellow  Companions  of  Jesus  Christ 
and  Soldier-monks  of  the  Temple  of  Solomon," — Jacques 
de  Molai,  hear  and  understand  I  You  are  charged,  as 
chief  of  this  order,  and,  in  your  person,  this  order  is 
charged,  with  apostacy  to  God,  treason  to  rnan,  heresy 
to  the  Church,  denial  of  Christ,  compact  with  the  Infidel, 
idolatry  of  Satan,  and  with  many  other  iniquities  too 
horrible  to  declare  and  too  numerous  now  to  recite.  To 
this  arraignment  of  yourself  and  of  the  order  you  rule, — 
Jacques  de  iMolai,  what  say  you?  Are  you  guilty,  or 
are  vou  not  guilty  ? 

-  The  majestic  old  man  clasped  his  manacled  diands, 
and,  raising  his  eyes  to  Heaven,  in  firm  and  steady  tones 
responded : 

Before  God,  for  my  beloved  order  and  for  myself, 
I  answer. — Xot  guilty  I'' 

The  Incj_uisitor-General  gave  three  raps  upon  the  table 
with  a  small  gavel  of  ebony,  and,  instantly,  the  curtain 
of  black  serge  at  the  extremity  of  the  apartment  in 
front  of  the  council  rose. 

The  spectacle  it  revealed  might  well  cause  the  firmest 


266 


THE  GAUNTLET. 


nerves  to  tremble.  The  first  object  wliicli  arrested  the 
eye  was  a  low  leatbern  mattress,  spread  on  a  frame,  in 
the  centre  of  the  apartment  thus  revealed ;  while,  from 
the  vaulted  and  cavern-like  arch  above,  descended  a 
stout  pulley,  to  the  extremity  of  which,  and  reposing  on 
the  leathern  bed,  was  a  broad  belt  for  the  waist,  with  a 
copper  buckle,  and  two  straps  of  similar  breadth  and 
similarly  furnished  for  the  shoulders.  This,  in  the 
poetical  parlance  of  the  age,  was  a  "Bed  of  Justice^ 
Beside  this  mattress  was  a  frame  of  somewhat  similar 
structure,  but  furnished  at  both  ends  with  a  sort  of 
windlass,  evidently  worked  by  the  ropes  and  levers 
attached. 

Upon  the  Bed  of  Justice  sat  a  fearful  figure  in  gar- 
ments of  black  slashed  with  crimson,  and  with  muscular 
arms  bare  to  the  elbow;  while,  beside  him,  sat  two 
assistants  similarly  garbed. 

At  a  table,  at  the  further  extremity  of  the  compart- 
ment, in  a  huge  arm-chair  of  oak,  sat  another  man, 
garbed  in  robes  of  black  velvet.  Before  him  was  an 
array  of  restoratives,  and  elixirs,  and  cordials,  and  pun- 
gent aromas,  and  a  few  of  the  rude  surgical  instruments 
of  the  day, — scalpels  and  lancets,  and  tourniquets,  and 
knives.  This  man  was  the  surgeon  of  the  Torture- 
chamber;  for,  by  hellish  humanity,  the  victim  was  suf- 
fered to  perish  by  nothing  but  torture;  and  the  utmost 
assiduity  and  all  the  skill  of  science  of  the  day  were 
■  exercised  to  prevent  syncope,  collapse,  or  a  too  speedy 
death.  Beside  the  rack  ever  stood  the  surgeon,  with 
vigilant  finger  on  the  victim's  pulse;  and  the  torments 


THE  GAUXTLET. 


267 


Trere  increased  or  di  minis  lied,  exactly  as  the  strei^gtli  of 
the  subject  seemed  to  permit, — exactly  as  the  fluttering, 
or  fevered  puLe  might  indicate  the  discretion  of  the'.r 
appliance  I 

Upon  the  floor,  or  hanging  against  the  walls,  was  a 
confused  and  fearful  array  of  strange-shaped  and  name- 
less implements  of  tonure.  Buclvlers  and  bracelets. — 
helmets  and  corselets, — screws  for  t\iQ  thumb  and  col- 
lars for  the  throat, — buskins  of  iron  and  gauntlets  of 
steel. — hooks,  and  chains,  and  saws,  and  pulleys. — ^ 
wedges  and  beetles  of  every  size — such  was  the  hideous 
parapliernalia  of  this  vestibule  of  hell,  while,  in  a  blaz- 
ing furnace  in  the  solid  wall,  like  that  already  described 
in  the  other  apartment,  gleamed  pincers,  an.d  tongs,  and 
bands,  and  ploughshares,  in  fiery  menace.  Against  the 
wall  leaned  an  iron  wheel,  and  beside  it  stood  a  massive 
mace  of  the  same  mxaterial,  Avherewitli  to  crush  tlie 
limbs  of  the  victim  reclining  on  its  spokes, — his  head 
bound  to  ti;e  hub  and  his  feet  braced  against  the  felloe! 

As  tiie  black  curtain  ascended,  being  apparently 
•  drawn  up.  on  either  side,  by  unseen  cords,  the  sworn 
Tormentor  with  his  assistants  at  once  arose,  and 
approached  the  venerable  victim,  who,  with  folded  arms 
and  erect  form,  calm  and  unmoved,  still  stood  before 
that  infamous  council. 

"The  gauntlet!"  said  Imbert :  and,  immediately,  one 
of  the  assistants  brought  forward  with  difficulty  a  mas- 
sive glove  of  steel,  which  he  laid  heavilv  on  the  table 
of  council.  At  the  same  time,  the  other  satellite,  in 
company  with  his  chief,  approached  the  Grand  iMaster, 
17 


268 


THE  GAUNTLET. 


and  tlieylaid  tlieir  huge  hands  rudely  upon  his  shoulders. 
The  next  instant  both  men  were  prostrate  on  the  stone 
pavement,  on  either  side,  at  the  distance  of  several  feet 
from  the  Templar  chief,  while  the  fire  of  indignation 
and  insulted  pride  flamed  from  the  deep  sockets  of  bis 
sunken  eyes.  Then,  striding  firmly  to  the  table,  he 
thrust  his  powerful  hand  and  arm,  half-way  up  to  the 
elbow,  into  the  gauntlet  of  steel. 

"Begin!"  criel  the  Inquisitor,  with  malice  almost 
fiend-like  in  his  tones. 

The  assistant  tormentor  at  once  commenced  turning  a 
screw  situated  upon  the  back  of  the  ponderous  gauntlet, 
through  Avhich,  by  most  exquisite  skill  and  contrivance, 
— a  sldll  and  contrivance  worthy  of  exertion  in  a  better 
cause, — the  whole  internal  apparatus  began  immediately 
to  contract,  embracing  every  knuckle,  and  muscle,  and 
nail, — such  was  the  mechanical  ingenuity  of  its  con- 
struction,— so  perfectly  and  so  slowly  grasping  tlie 
whole  hand  in  its  velvet  lining,  with  such  equable  pres- 
sure, that,  for  some  moments,  no  disagreeable  sensation 
whatever  could  be  perceived,  bat  rather  the  i-everse. 
The  first  perceptible  effect  experienced  by  the  victim 
was  arrest  of  circulation  and  slowly  increasing  paralysis 
of  the  parts.  Next,  sharp  and  cutting  pangs  shot  up  the 
nerves  into  the  arm  and  body;  then,  sharp  semi-circles  of 
steel  began  to  sink  into  the  quick  at  the  roots  of  the 
nails, — rough  knobs  began  to  crush  the  knuckles,  while 
sinews  of  adamant  adapted  themselves  with  infernal 
precision  and  annihilating  effect  to  the  sinews  and  mus- 
cles and  tendons  of  the  living  mechanism  of  God  1 


THE  GAUNTLET, 


269 


The  torture  elicited  by  sucli  a  contrivance  may, 
possibly,  in  some  small  degree,  be  conceived.  Describe 
it,  of  course,  cannot  be.  It  can,  liovvever,  be  readily 
imagined  that  of  all  the  slcilful  inventions  of  a  Dark 
Age  to  produce  human  agony,  there  were  few  that 
could  assume  precedence  of  the  gauntlet  for  their 
infernal  triumph. 

And  to  this  hellish  instrument  was  the  liand  of  the 
heroic  old  man,  which  had  so  often,  for  the  glory  of  the 
Church  and  the  cross, — that  same  church  and  cross  for 
heresy  to  wdiich  he  now^,  hy  blasphemous  perversion  of 
terms,  was  doomed  to  suffer, — was  the  hand  of  the  noble 
Templar  chief,  wdiich  had  so  often  for  the  Church 
grasped  the  battle- brand,  now  subjected! 

It  was  the  Templar's  right  hand  which  was  embraced 
bv  the  ponderous  gauntlet,  as  it  lay  on  tiie  table  before 
the  Inquisitors.  The  broad  palm  of  his  left  hand  was 
pressed  closely  over  his  heart; — his  posture  w^as  firm — 
stern — erect — majestic; — his  bead  was  turned  aside  over 
his  left  shoulder,  and  slightly  thrown  back;  Avhile,  with 
lips  apart,  and  eyes  and  face  devoutly  raised  to  Heaven, 
as  if  in  prayer,  he  awaited  the  torments,  which,  slowly 
yet  most  surely,  were  approaching. 

For  some  moments,  as  the  tormentor  noiselessly  and 
ceaselessly  turned  the  well-oiled  screws,  the  Inquisitors, 
wdiose  eyes  were  fastened  witli  curiosity  and  awe  upon 
the  majestic  face  of  their  victim,  could  perceive  no 
change.  At  length,  the  broad  broAV  slowdy  corrugated, 
— the  lips  curled  witb  anguish  so  as  to  lay  bare  the 
white  teeth, — the  eyelids  fell, — the  band  dropped  like 


270 


THE  GAUNTLET. 


lead  from  tlie  heart, — tlie  pallor  of  death  diffused  itself 
over  the  countenance, — a  groan  of  more  than  human 
anguish  burst  from  the  heaving  bosom,  and,  the  totter- 
ing, tlie  venerable  sufferer  would  have  fallen,  had  he  not 
been  sustained  bv  the  ponderous  gauntlet  by  which  his 
hand  was  grasped. 

''Hold!"  shouted  Imbert,  springing  to  his  feet.  The 
whole  council,  at  the  same  instant,  and  seemingly  through 
the  same  impulse,  iiad  also  risen.  "Reverse  !  "  he  cried 
to  the  demon  of  the  screw. 

The  slave  obeyed,  and  tlie  gauntlet  began  to  relax  its 
crushing  clasp.  At  the  same  time,  the  man  in  black 
hurried  forward  with  a  small  silver  basin  half-filled  with 
a  freshly-poured  fluid,  the  pungent  and  acrid  aroma  of 
which  instantly  loaded  the  atmosphere  of  the  chamber. 
Tn  his  hand  he  bore  a  sponge.  Saturating  the  sponge 
with  the  fluid,  and  throwing  his  arm  around  the  victim  s 
drooping  form  to  give  it  support,  he  began,  with  ready 
skill,  application  of  the  soft  and  porous  mass  to  the  nos- 
trils, lips,  cheeks  and  pallid  brow  of  the  exhausted  suf- 
ferer, who  showed  immediate  symptoms  of  reviving 
energy.  He  was,  however,  too  feeble  to  stand,  and  was 
borne  by  the  dark  familiars,  with  most  solicitous  assidu- 
ity, to  the  low  leathern  mattress,  worn  thin  by  use,  of 
the  Bed  of  Justice.  The  wretches  were  solicitous  lest 
their  victim  should  too  soon  escape  them,' — lest  he 
should  evade  additional  torments  held  in  reserve.  The 
head  of  the  Templar  rested  on  the  bosom  of  the  physi- 
cian, who  sat  at  one  extremity  of  the  mattress,  while  the 
tormentor  and  his  assistants,  with  prompt  ingenuity,  aided 


THE  GAUNTLET. 


271 


to  sustain  liis  almost  gigantic  form,  by  means  of  the 
broad  leathern  belt  suspended  by  pulleys  attaclied  to  tlie 
arched  roof  over  the  bed  of  torment,  with  which  they 
encircled  his  waist. 

The  physician  still  continued  unremittingly  to  bathe 
tLe  pale  face  of  the  sufferer;  and  his  assiduities  were,  at 
length,  rewarded  by  success.  A  deep  sigh  heaved  the 
patients  breast, — his  eyes  languidly  opened, — his  lips 
moved. 

"The  flesh  is,  indeed,  weak,"  he  murmured.  "Oh, 
God!  how  very  feeble  thy  creatures  are!" 

"  What  ssljs  the  prisoner?"  asked  Imbert,  who,  with 
the  other  members  of  the  council,  had  reo'ained  his 
seat. 

"lie  says  the  flesh  is  weak,"  echoed  the  physician. 

"Greffier,"  cried  Imbert,  "write  down  that  the  accused 
says,  'Tlie  flesh  is  weak.'" 

Tiie  secretary,  who  had  already  recorded  the  groan, 
the  swoon,  and  the  sigh,  instantly,  with  prompt  and 
punctilious  ofliciousness,  obeyed. 

"Jacquis  de  Molai,"  again  cried  the  President  of  the 
council,  after  a  pause,  "  do  you  confess  the  guilt  of  the 
which  yoa  here  stand  charged?  " 
.    A  silence  of  some  moments  succeeded. 

"  For  the  second  time,  Jac4:[ues  de  Molai,— do  you  con- 
fess your  guilt?  "  asked  Imbert. 

Again  there  was  no  answ^er,  and  again  there  was 
silence. 

"Jacques  do  Molai,  for  the  last  time, — do  you  confess 
your  guilt? ''  repeated  the  monk. 


272 


THE  GAUNTLET. 


"I  do!"  was  tlie  feeble  response. 

Had  the  arched  roof  of  that  dark  chamber  fallen,  the 
Inquisitors  could  hardly  have  manifested  more  wonder 
than  at  this  unexpected  confession.  They  gazed  on  each 
other  in  bewildered  surprise  with  which  was  not  un- 
mingled  an  expression  of  bitter  disappointment.  It  was 
plain  they  had  never  dreamed,  after  beholding  thirty- 
six  inferior  knights  of  the  order  expire  on  the  rack,  with- 
out the  utterance  of  a  syllable  of  acknowledgement  or 
contrition,  that  their  heroic  chieftain  would  be  the  first 
to  falter;  and  it  was  plain,  too,  that  this  miracle  was  no 
more  agreeable  to  them, — inveterate  foes  to  the  order  as 
each  one  individually  was  from  private  and  personal 
hostilities  without  number, — than  intelligence  thereof 
would,  probably,  prove  to  its  most  devoted  friends, — ■ 
though,  of  course,  for  very  different  reasons. 

"GrefS.er,"  said  Imbert,  after  a  brief  pause,  recovering 
somewhat  from  his  amazement,  "write  down  that  the 
prisoner  says,  'I  do,'  in  confession  of  his  guilt." 

The  clerk  obeyed,  and  read  aloud  what  he  had  written. 

The  Inquisitor  then  resumed  his  interrogatories. 

"Jacques  de  Molai,  you  confess  yourself  guilty  of 
heresy?  " 

"  Yes,"  Avas  the  response  of  the  old  man,  in  meaning- 
less and  mechanical  tones. 

lie  seemed  in  a  stupor,  as  with  eyes  closed,  and  his  head 
resting  on  the  breast  of  the  physician,  who  still  applied 
the  restorative,  he  reclined  on  the  low  leathern  bed. 
'   But  his  brain  was  busy, — his  thoughts  were  far  away  ; 
he  was  sacrificing  himself  to  the  salvation,  as  he  hoped, 


THE  GAUXTLET. 


273 


of  li:s  beloved  order,  and  Le  knew  it,  he  meant  it.  He 
liad  but  one  answer  to  make  to  ever\'  question,  be  it 
what  it  might,  and  that  ansvrer  was  brief,  and  required 
no  reflection. 

''You  confess  yourself  guilty  of  sortilege  and  magic?" 
continued  Imbert. 
•■Yes." 

"And  of  converse  and  commerce  with  the  devil,  in  the 
form  of  a  big  blacli  tom-cat?  " 
'^Yes.^^ 

"And  of  having  worshipped  said  dewll,  in  the  shape 
of  said  big  blacli  tom-cat?"' 
''Yesd'^ 

A::d,  likewise,  of  hawing  worshipped  a  big  brass 
hei.d.  with,  gog-gle  eyes,  and  a  long  black  beard,  said 
beard  being  greased  with  the  fat  fried  out  of  a  Tem- 
piar's  cliild,  which  child,  aforesaid,  you  and  your  knights 
roasted  before  a  slow  ]dre  on  the  points  of  your  swords? 
"Yes." 

"And  of  having  sold  the  Holy  Sepulchre  to  the 
Infidel?" 


*A5  regards  the  head  tlie  Templars  vrere  said  to  worship,  accounts  vary. 
Some  sav  it  was  tliar  of  an  old  man  with  a  long  white  beard :  and  others  tiiat 
it  was  the  head  of  a  youug  woman,  and  one  of  the  ll.C*>j  vii-gins  of  Cologne ! 
Another  account  is  this:  A  Templar  loving  a  maiden,  she  slew  herself 
rather  than  yield  to  him.  After  her  interment,  he  ouened  her  grave,  and  cut 
off  the  head.'aud,  while  thus  doiiig,  he  heard  issuing  from  the  pale  lips  these 
words— ■■  Whoever  looks  on  me  shall  he  destroyed : Enclosing  tiiis  Medusa- 
like head  in  a  box,  he  took  it  to  Palestine,  and.  wherever  he  uncovered  the 
head,  walls  of  cities  and  whole  armies  fell:  At  lensth  he  embarked  to 
destroy  Constantinople:  but,  on.  the  voyage,  a  woman,  out  of  curiosity, 
opened  the  fatal  box : — a  tempest  arose  I — the  ship  was  wrecked." — every  oiie 
perished,  but tlie knight,  and  the  very  fishes  deserted  that  seal  And",  ever 
after,  in  tempests,  that  beautiful  head  rose  to  the  surface,  and  rode, 
gracefullv  the  waves  with  streaming  hair,  and  everv  ship  went  down  before 
it:  How" the  Templars  got  possession  of  this  terriljle  bead  tradition  telleth 
not  I 


274: 


THE  GAUNTLET, 


Yes." 

"And  denied  Christ?" 
"  Yes." 

"And  trampled  on  tlie  cross,  and  spit  on  tlie  conse- 
crated host,  and  mutilated  the  solemn  Mass?" 
"Yes." 

"And  that  you  have  drunk  human  blood,  mingled 
with  Cyprus  wine,  out  of  skulls,  with  wizards  and  witches, 
and  sorcerers,  and  demons,  at  their  feasts  and  Sabbaths, 
and  likewise,  then  and  there,  and  at  such  time  and  place, 
have  hopped  about  on  one  foot  around  a  big  cauldron, 
in  which  cauldron  was  boiling  the  flesh  of  infants, 
which  aforesaid  flesh,  you.  did,  then  and  there,  after- 
wards, with  the  aforesaid  devils  and  other  evil  persons, 
partake  of  nnd  devour,  with  much  gloss  and  glamour 
and  magical  practices,  likewise,  with  vigils,  and  periapts, 
and  cabalistic  and  symbolic  signs  and  mysteries?  " 

The  Templar  was  silent. 

"Yes,  or  no? — Jacques  de  Molai — answer!"  cried 
Imbert  in  tones,  which,  had  that  dark  old  chamber  pos- 
sessed echoes,  would  have  roused  them  all. 

They  certainly  roused  the  poor  victim  from  his  rev- 
erie, for  he  quickly  and  eagerly  answered: 

"Yes  I— yes!" 

"And  you  do  likewise  confess  that  you  have  pledged 
the  libation  of  blood,  as  a  seal  of  your  compact  with  the 
Infidel, — -your  blood  and  his  blood  being  commingled  in 
the  same  skull,  and  drunk  up  warm  and  steaming?" 

"  Yes." 

The  Grand  Inquisitor  paused  to  take  breath :  also,  to 


THE  GAUNTLET. 


275 


give  the  unhappy  Greffier,  whose  pen  the  r]_jhteou.s 
enthusiasm  of  the  nioiik's  pregnant  and  rapid  interroga- 
tories had  kept  in  furious  requisition,  a  chance  to  catch 
up;  likewise  to  wipe  his  forehead. 

But  there  was  another  reason  why  the  pious  monk 
of  St.  Dominic  paused,  and  of  far  more  im[)ort,  witli 
liimself,  at  least,  than  either  of  the  others; — he  had 
nothing  more  to  say !  Of  common  crimes,  such  as  rob- 
bery, rapine,  ravishment,  murder,  adultery,  and  the  lil^e, 
thouo'h  the  charcre  ai>ainst  the  doomed  order  embodied 
each  and  every  one  in  the  Hebrew  Decalogue,  or  in  the 
code  of  Draco, — the  wise,  and  merciful,  and  learned 
Wilham  of  Paris  condescended  to  question  not  a  word  1 
Not  lie!  Such  crimes  Avere  in  the  comparison,  trifling, 
in  the  wise  appi'eciation  of  the  holy  father, — aj^e !  and 
in  the  infallible  judgment  of  the  Holy  Church,  too,  it 
would  seem;  for  she  would  sell  the  privilege  of  perpetra- 
ting any  or  either  of  the  same  for  a  trifling  considera- 
tion! Such  crimes  were  a  mere  hagaielle  compared  witli 
the  heinous  offences  of  worshipping  Beelzebub  in  the 
shape  of  a  big  black  tom-cat, — of  bowing  clown  to  a 
brazen  head  with  goggle  eyes, — of  greasing  the  beard 
of  the  aforesaid  head  with  the  fat  of  Templar  babies,-— 
of  drinking  Paynim  blood  out  of  Paynim  skulls, — of  dan- 
cing at  wizards'  feasts  and  Avitcbes'  Sabbaths,  and  the 
like,  as  has  been  herein  rehearsed  !* 

*  If  the  reader  deems  it  inorertible,  that,  on  charges  like  these  and  abso- 
lutely and  literally  these,  the  Templars  were  arraijrned.  tortured,  and  burnt, 
let  him  consult  the  works  of  Dupuy,  Raynouard,  Vertot,  and  Villani,  in 
French :  and  those  of  all  modern  historians,  whetlier  Catholic  or  Protestant, 
in  English ! 


276 


THE  GAUNTLET. 


"The  Holj  Office  has  closed  its  interrogatories,"  was 
the  pompous  promulgation  of  the  Inquisitor-General, 
otherwise  William  of  Paris,  otherwise  plain  William 
Iinbert,  a  friar  of  St.  Dominic, — when  he  had  gone  to 
the  length  of  liis  intellectual  tether,  and  had  asked  as 
touching  every  crime  of  which  the  polluted  annals  of  the 
aforesaid  Holy  Office  then  had  record, — so  far  as  his 
memory,  after  due  refreshment  and  reflection  and  consul- 
tation with  the  Cardinals,  at  the  moment  served  him. 
"The  Holy  Office  has  closed  its  interrogatories.  After 
the  spiritual  comes  the  civil  authority." 

This  was  understood  to  mean  that  De  Noo^aret,  De 
]\larigni,  or  De  Chatillon,  the  Chancellor,  Minister,  and 
Constable  of  France,  had  now  permission  to  propound 
questions.  The  Papal  Legates  were  mere  spectators  and 
counsellors. 

"Jacques  de  Molai,"  cried  the  first,  "you  confess 
the  commission  of  adultery,  fornication,  and  most  horri- 
ble, abominable,  unmentionable,  damnable,  and  beastial 
crimes,  and  unpardonable  sins  against  God  and  Nature?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  Grand  Master,  who  was  roused  by 
his  friend,  the  leech,  in  time  to  pronounce  the  significant 
and  saving  monosyllable,  without  exciting  wrath,  or 
suspicion  by  any  "  heretical  and  obstinate  delay." 

Poor  old  man!  He  charged  himself  with  crimes  of 
which  he  could  not  have  been  guilty,  if  he  would!  The 
only  passion  he  had  ever  felt, — or  indulged,  in  all  his 
life,  was  military  ambition ;  and,  for  twenty  years,  the 
blood  in  his  veins  had  been  ice  to  all  "fleshly  lusts 
that  war  against  the  soul." 


THE  GAUNTLET. 


277 


"  Jacques  de  Molai,"  cried  tlie  second,  and  he  was  the 
Prime  Minister, — "you  confess  yourself  guilty  of  treason 
to  the  crown  of  France  ?  " 

"Yes,"  was  the  automatic  answer. 

"Jacques  de  Molai,"  cried  the  third,  and  he  was  the 
Constable, — "you  confess  that  you  have  drawn  your 
sword,  and  levied  war,  and  treasonably  conspired,  and 
meditated  and  suborned  others  to  conspire  and  to  medi- 
tate treason,  against  the  peace  and  dignity  of  the  realm 
of  France,  and  her  rightful  King,  Philip  the  Fourth,  the 
grandson  of  St.  Louis  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  was  the  careless  answer. 

Had  they  asked  the  old  man  if  he  had  made  the 
world, — that  act  beino-  construed  a  criminal  one — or  had 
led  on  the  Titans  to  scale  Olympus  and  dethrone  Jove, 
— or,  instigated  the  rebel  angels  to  dethrone  the  Diety, 
his  answer  would  have  been  the  same  ! 

But,  as  none  of  these  interrogations  chanced  to  occur 
to  these  most  astute  and  learned  lords  spiritual  and  tem- 
poral, they  were  not,  of  course,  propounded.  Besides, 
these  offences  would,  in  all  probability^  have  been 
deemed  but  minor  ones  as  compared  with  sortilege  and 
sodomy  and  magic  and  idol n try.* 

A  pause  of  some  considerable  length  succeeded,  during 
which  silence  nothing  was  heard  save  the  reed  pen  of 
the  perspiring  Greffter,  who  toiled  away  to  complete  his 
record  of  the  wonderful  revelations  of  that  midnight 
conclave. 


*  Nearly  every  charge  against  the  Templars  had  previously  been  made 
against  the  martyred  Albigenses. 


278 


THE  GAUNTLET. 


At  length,  lie  ceased  to  write,  and,  witli  a  relieved, 
satisfied,  and  self-complaisant  air,  contemplated  the 
work  of  his  hands.  Tiiis  Avas  the  signal  for  the  Grand 
Inquisitor  again  to  break  silence. 

"  Greffier,"  cried  the  monk,  with  most  magisterial  sol- 
emnity, "you  will  now  rehearse  the  record  of  the  pro- 
ceedings of  this  onr  sitting  I" 

The  Grefher  instantly  stood  up,  and  began  reading,  in 
that  melodious  tone  styled  the  nasal,  which  was  quite 
as  characteristic  of  clerks  more  than  five  centuries  ago, 
as  it  is  said  to  be  now. 

"Amen — amen — amen  I  Be  it  known,  to  all  and  sin- 
gular, to  whom  come  these  writings,  that,  on  the  night 
of  the  eighth  day  of  August,  in  the  year  of  the  world's 
salvation,  one  thousand  three  hundred  and  eight,  we, 
the  undersigned, — to  wit: — William  Imbert,  Inquisitor- 
General,  Cardinals  de  Prato  and  De  Montesiore,  Legates 
of  the  Papal  See,  William  de  Nogaret,  Chancellor  of 
France,  Enguerrand  de  Marigni,  Prime  Minister,  and 
Hugh  de  Chatillon,  Grand  Constable  of  the  realm,  and 
likewise,  etc.,  etc.,  appointed  to  examine,  as  touching 
their  crimes,  the  Grand  Master  of  the  Templars,  and 
the  Grand  Priors  of  France,  and  of  Normandy,  and  of 
Acquitaino,  by  ordinary  and  extraordinary  torture,  did 
meet  and  assemble  in  the  Question  Chamber  of  the  Castle 
of  Chinon,  in  the  Province  of  Limousin,  and  then  and  there 
did  proceed  to  work.  Jacques  de  Molai,  Grand  Master 
of  the  Templars,  being  produced  and  arraigned,  pleaded 
not  guilty  to  the  charges  preferred  against  him  and  his 
order,  whereupon,  being  subjected  to  the  gauntlet^  he 


THE  GAFXTLET. 


279 


groa-iied,  and  tlien  nearly  swooned,  and  tLen,  "^dien  lie 
reviveJ,  sighed,  and  said — 'The  flesh  is  Aveak;'  and 
being  asked,  if  he  Avonld  confess — said,  '  Yes ; '  and 
heing  asked  if  he  was  gnilty  of  heresy,  said,  'Yes;'  and 
beino'  asked  if  he  was  gailtv  of  sortilese  and  mao-ic.  said, 
'Yes;'  and,  being  aslced  if  he  ha<I  woi'shipped  the  devil 
in  the  sliape  of  a  big  bhack  tom-cat,  said,  ^  Yes ; "  and 
being  asked,"'  etc.,  etc. 

And  tlms  ran  on  this  most  edifying  and  trnthfnl 
record,  to  tlie  very  end  of  tlie  cliajiter  already  detailed  I 

Wlien  the  sweet  and  nasal  tones  of  the  Grefrier  ceased  to 
be  heard,  the  Inquisitor  and  his  coadjutors  rose  together 
solemnly  from  their  chairs, 

"Jacques  de  Molai,"  cried  the  Inquisitor,  "you  have 
iheard  read  the  record  of  j'our  examination  by  ordinary 
and  extraordinary  torture/' 

The  old  man  had  heard  not  a  syllable.  His  thoughts 
were  elsewhere,  and  on  matters  of  far  different  import. 

"Is  that  record  true,  or  is  it  false  ?  " 

"Yes,"'  replied  the  Templar  chief.   

His  friend  of  the  sponge  and  basin,  who  seemed  to  have 
a  complete,  and  adequate,  and  most  intelligent  apprecia- 
tion and  comprehension  of  the  whole  scene,  with  all  its 
merits,  and  also  its  demerits,  if  it  had  any, — arising  from 
long  familiarity  with  the  like,  had  giA'cn  him  a  season- 
able punch  in  the  side. 

"Is  it  true,  or  false  !"'  thundered  Imbcrt,  elevating  his 
eyebrows,  and  affecting  to  regard  the  simple  and  inno- 
cent monosyllable  as  a  suspicious  indication  of  contu- 
macy. 


280 


THE  GAUNTLET. 


'*Tru3 — true!"  wTaispered  the  mau  in  black. 

"True — true!"  eagerly  echoed  the  victim. 

The  wrath  of  the  Inquisitor  seemed  partially  appeased, 
and,  in  tones  less  teiTible,  he  continued: 

"And  you  confess,  in  the  presence  of  these  witnesses, 
that  you  are  guilty  of  all  these  manifold  iniquities,  and, 
also,  that  the  whole  order,  of  which  you  aie  chief,  is 
likewise  guilty — " 

"Hold!"  cried  the  Grand  Master  of  the  Temple, 
struggling  to  regain  his  feet. 

A  flash  of  lightning  could  hardly  have  electrified 
every  man  in  that  apartment  more  completely  than  did 
that  shout. 

The  old  hero  had  been  viewed  as  little  better  than 
dead,  but  the  very  name  of  his  beloved  order  had 
recalled  hijn  to  life. 

"Hear  me  and  bear  witness,  all  you  who  are  here 
present ! "  he  exclaimed,  in  stern,  strong  tones.  "  Against 
myself  I  confess  everything: — against  the  Temple  7wth- 

And  the  victim  sank  back  again  into  his  seeming 
stupor,  as  if  exhausted. 

The  members  of  the  council  looked  on  each  other 
in  solicitude  and  doubt. 

But  the  night  was  now  far  advanced,  and  the  saga- 
cious Imbert  put  a  summary  close  to  all  embarrassment, 
by  exclaiming: 

"Jacques  de  Molai  will  be  borne  to  his  dungeon.  On 
the  morrow,  Hugh  de  Peralde  will  be  examined  by  or- 
dinary and  extraordinary  torture,  as  touching  his  crimes, 


THE  GAUXTLET. 


2S1 


aind  after  Lini  tlie  Grand  Priors  of  Xonnar.dy  and 
Acquitaiiie,  in  snecession.  And  God  save  tbe  Hu-j 
Churcli:"' 

God  save  tl.e  TI o]y  Cl;nrcli !  "  echoed  ail  in  ti.e  dnn- 
geon.  crossing  their  breasts. 
And  even  so  it  ^as. 
And  the  council  dispersed. 

And  Jacqnes  de  Aloiai  v.  as  borne  to  his  dungeon. 

And  the  next  day  the  Grand  Priors  of  France,  ard 
iKormandy.  and  Acquitaine  vrere  examined  by  ordinary 
and  extraordinary  torroi^e,  as  touching  the  preferred 
charges. 

But  the  faithfal  Temphar  turnkey  had  placed  in  tl:e:r 
hands  the  cipher  from  the  chief  of  their  beloved  order, 
which  meant : 

'•The  good  Tempiar  foilovrs  his  leader." 

And  likevrise  the  Templar  vratch-vrord  of  Chinon, 
which  vras  this : 


282 


THE  FIELD  OF  ST.  ANTOINE. 


CHAPTER  XXIV, 


THE  FIELD  OF  ST.  ANTOINE. 


HE  examination  of  the  Grand  Priors  of  France, 


fl  Normandy  and  Acquitaine  wliicli  ensued,  as 
appointed,  on  tlie  niglit  succeeding  that  of  the  examina- 
tion of  the  Grand  Master  of  the  order,  in  the  Question 
Chamber  of  the  Castle  of  Chinon,  was,  in  all  respects,  in 
character  and  in  results,  the  same  as  that  detailed  in  the 
last  cliapter.  The  mode  of  torture  only  was  varied,  and 
the  confessions  varied,  also,  in  unimportant  details; 
while  less  time  was  wasted  u|)on  all  three  of  the  Priors 
together  than  had  been  devoted  to  the  chief  magnate  of 
the  oi'der  alone. 

On  the  morning  succeeding  the  examination  of  the 
Grand  Priors,  being  that  of  the  tenth  day  of  August,  1308, 
the  whole  council  deputed  to  the  service  left  Chinon  for 
Paris,  with  all  the  records  of  their  proceedings,  in  order 
themselves  to  be  the  couriers  of  the  unlooked-for  result 
of  their  mission,  and  to  afford  their  royal  master  the  aid 
of  their  suggestions,  as  touching  the  somewhat  embar- 
rassing position,  in  which  they  were  aware  he  would  be 
placed  by  the  event  they  were  to  announce. 

Nor  had  they  misj  udged.  Philip  was  filled  with  rage  and 
disappointment  at  being  thus  foiled  in  a  purpose,  which 
De  Molai  seems  rightly  to  have  divined,  of  annihilating 


THE  FIELD  OF  ST.  AXTGTXE. 


233 


tlie  ^vhole  order  upon  the  rack,  save  only  tliose  wlio 
Avould  renounce  their  vows  and  aid  in  his  design  I  Of 
these  Litter  were  not  a  few  of  those  wiio  had  assume  1 
the  title  of  Templar  and  its  costame,  Avithout  the  right 
to  either,  and  had  been  degraded  by  the  Grand  Master, 
in  liis  stringent  efforts  at  reform,  on  his  first  arrwal  at 
Paris.  Tliere  were  others  fi'om  wdiom  the  Templar 
rnantle  had  been  torn  as  a  mark  of  degradation,  for  vice 
or  for  crime,  or  who  had  been  subjected  to  penance  or 
imprisonment  for  violation  oi'  their  vows,  who  were 
rejoiced  at  the  opportunity  now  afforded  them,  v.ot  only  of 
charging  the  order  from  Avhich  they  were  apostates  of 
most  horrid  guilt,  but  thereby  obtaining  honors  and 
rewards.  Others  tliere  were  whom  menace  had  intim- 
idated, tortnre  vanquished,  or  bribery  corrupted.  But, 
until  now,  the  number  of  these  was  comparatively  small, 
as  is  evidenced  by  the  large  proportion  of  the  victims 
wdio  expired  from  the  extremity  of  their  tortures. 

But,  now,  as  the  astute  Philip  had  foreseen  it  would 
be,  it  was  very  different.  The  example  of  the  Grand 
Officers  of  the  order  seemed  irresistible.  At  once,  not 
only  in  all  the  dungeons  of  Paris  and  all  over  France, 
but  in  England  and  Provence,  at  Eavenna,  Pisa  and 
Florence,'^  and,  indeed,  all  over  Europie.  everv  charge, 
however  hideous,  and  impossible,  and  absurd,  was  no 
sooner  preferred  than  confessed. 

Dismayed,  disappointed,  embarrassed,  the  enemies 
of  the  persecuted  order  v^ere  at  a  loss  what  next  to  do. 
The  effect  of  the  Grand  iMaster's  example  surpassed  their 


18 


*  Yelly. 


284 


THE  FIELD  OF  ST.  ANTOINE. 


utmost  appreliensious,  and  excited  even  their  astomsli- 
meiit.  That  amazement  would,  probablj^,  Lave  been  less, 
had  the  J  been  aware  that,  in  tlie  train  of  the  Inquisitor 
of  Chinon,  rode  one  who  entered  Paris  with  themselves, 
and  who  bore  an  order  in  cipher  from  De  Molai  to 
the  imprisoned  Templars,  bidding  them  imitate  their 
Master.  "  The  good  Templar  follows  his  leader,"  said 
a  single  cipher  of  the  soldier-monk;  and  this  cipher 
explained  all.  They  asked  not  for  motives,  nor  for 
designs.  It  was  the  order  of  the  Grand  Master,  and 
they  obeyed. 

But  if  Philip  and  his  Ministers  evinced  surprise  and 
disappointment  at  the  unexpected  and  embarrassing 
phase  now  assumed  by  the  affairs  of  the  Templars,  there 
was  one  whose  wrath  at  that  event  far  exceeded  their 
own,  even  as  her  prior  enthusiasm  exhibited  in  the 
cause  had  put  their  own  to  the  blush.  That  person — 
strange  to  tell! — was  the  once  mild,  gentle,  amiable, 
and  still  most  lovely  Blanche  of  Artois,  the  Countess  of 
Marche  !  From  the  midnight  dungeons  of  Chinon,  she 
seems  to  have  emerged  a  fiend  of  cruelt}^  and  crime  !  . 

It  has  been  asserted  that  the  heart  of  woman,  once 
thoroughly  depraved,  can  find  no  equal  in  the  breast  of 
man,  however  corrupt;  that  it  knows  no  compunction, 
is  utterly  unforgiving,  and  can  devise  and  calmly  inflict 
torments,  at  which  the  sterner  sex  would  shudder.  If 
this  he  so,  never  was  a  more  striking  example  of  the 
principle  exhibited  than  in  Blanche  of  Artois.  Never 
had  woman  loved,  worshipped,  idolized,  more  deeply, 
desperately,  devotedly,  than  had  she.    The  first  gushings 


THE  FIELD  OF  ST.  AXTOIXE. 


285 


of  her  passionate  heart  had  been  checked  and  chilled  at 
their  very  fountain  by  the  faithfulness  of  their  unwortlij^ 
object  ;  and,  having  turned  elscAvhere  for  consolation, 
and  sympath}^  in  an  ill-hited  hour,  it  had  centered  on  one 
who  seemed  the  very  vision  that  had  haunted  all  her 
girlliood  dreams— the  very  ideal  of  all  ber  maturer  long- 
ings. Oil.  how  had  that  fond  and  fervid  bosom  pal|iitated 
with  passion  in  the  embrace  of  that  beloved  being  ;  and, 
oh,  tlie  agonv  by  which  it  had  been  wrung  when  bereft 
of  its  idol!  To  win  back  that  idol — to  clasp  that 
beloved  object  once  more  to  her  heart,  althougb  the 
embrace  were  death,  she  would  gladly  sacrifice  all  most 
dear  to  her  as  a  princess,  or  a  woman.  Alas  I  what  had 
she  not  sacrificed!  She,  the  proud,  the  pure,  the  peer- 
less— ^the  bride  of  a  prince,  the  idol  of  a  palace,  the  star 
of  a  court,  the  boast  of  a  kingdom,  the  counsellor  of  a 
king,  the  beloved  and  admired  of  all  who  knew  her — to 
whose  sweet  face  all  eyes  looked  up  witli  respectful  love, 
and  for  whom  one  guilty  throb  would  have  been  crashed 
in  the  heart  as  sacrilege — alas  ! — alas  ! — what  was  she 
now?  The  insane  slave  of  a  horrible  and  unheard-of 
vengeance,  begotten  in  a  heart  now  a  hell — once  a 
heaven  by  a  passion  yet  more  deliriously  mad,  more 
rapturously  guilty!  Ah!  what  had  not  that  wild  pas- 
sion cost  her !  Doubt,  dread,  delirium,  terror,  suspense, 
remorse!  And  the  dreadful  vengeance  that  folloAved  1 
Every  pang  sbe  inflicted  she  felt;  and  the  rack  in  the 
dungeons  of  her  own  dark  heart  worked  on  as  ceaselessly 
as  in  the  dread  dungeons  of  her  innocent  victims  I 

And  then  the  humiliation,  the  abject  and  pitiful 


280 


THE  FIELD  OF  ST,  ANTOINE. 


entreaty,  the  beseecliing  supplication,  to  wliicli  she  had 
bowed  herself,  because  of  that  same  wild  love!  The 
youthful,  beautiful,  powerful  Countess  of  Marclie,  at 
midnight,  in  the  damp  dungeons  of  Chinon,  gained  only 
by  a  long  and  toilsome  route,  through  subterranean  pas- 
sage— at  the  foot  of  a  manacled  old  man,  imploring, 
entreating,  supplicating,  by  all  things  most  sacred  and 
most  dear — only  to  be  haughtily  and  scornfully  spurned  ! 

"  Ah,  let  him  writhe — let  him  writhe  on  !  "  would  she 
wildly  and  exultingly  exclaim,  as  with  rapid  steps  and 
flashing  eyes,  and  pallid  cheek,  and  disheveled  hair,  like 
a  lost  spirit,  she  would  pace  at  midnight  her  lonely 
chamber.  "Oh,  God!  what  but  tlie  rapture  of  revenge 
is  left  me  before  I  die  !  Aye,  let  him  writhe,  agonize — 
that  dark  old  man,  even  as  I  do  now !  But,  alas !  he 
cannot  suffer  with  me!  All,  had  I  but  his  naked  heart 
within  my  grasp,  that  I  might  crush  it,  even  as  he  has 
crushed  mine!  But  the  end  is  not  yet — the  end  is  not 
yet!  Adrian,  Adrian,  Adrian!"  she  would  ejaculate, 
in  tones  of  touching  sorrow,  bursting  into  an  agony  of 
tears,  and  dropping  beside  the  couch  on  which  he  had 
so  often  received  her  caresses,  and  burying  her  hxce  in 
her  hands — "  Would  to  God  we  were  both  of  us  dead  ! " 

And  scenes  like  this  were  witnessed  by  that  deserted 
chamber  of  Blanche  of  Artois,  not  once,  nor  twice,  nor 
thrice,  nor  many  times  ;  but  every  night,  when,  after  a 
whole  day  of  toil  in  the  accomplishment  of  her  fierce 
and  terrible  vengeance,  she  retired  to  her  lonely  pillow, 
such  fearful  scenes,  accompanied  by  prayers,  and  vows, 
and  ejaculations,  and  awful  maledictions,  occurred! 


THE  FIELD  OF  ST.  ANTOIXE. 


287 


It  is  not  wonclerfiil,  therefore,  that  wlieii  that  revenge, 
so  llercely  sought,  seemed,  even  for  a  moment,  foiled  or 
balked,  the  avenging  spirit  in  Blanche  of  Artois  should 
have  been  proportiouallv  roused. 

As  for  Piiilip,  he  was  too  deep  a  student — too  profound 
an  inquisitor  of  the  human  heart  not  to  perceive  that 
his  fair  daughter-in-law,  despite  all  concealments  and 
disguises,  Avas  actuated  by  some  intenser  emotion  than 
the  wdsh  to  gratify  him,  in  her  pertinacious  pursuit  of 
the  Templars.  What  that  impulse  might  be  he  could 
not  divine;  and,  in  sooth,  absorbed  as  he  was  in  his  own 
grasping  and  avaricious  schemes  with  reference  to  the 
same  end,  he  did  not  very  zealously  seek.  His  curiosity, 
it  is  true,  was  somewhat  piqued  to  know  the  influence 
that  could  have  changed  so  gentle  a  being,  as  had 
ahvays  been,  until  lately,  Blanche  of  Artois,  into  the 
stern,  fierce,  resentful  voman  he  now  knew  her.  But 
her  revenge  had  the  same  object  as  his  own  avarice. 
Whatever  its  cause,  of  this  he  was  sure  ;  and  he  did  not 
know — nay,  he  did  not  care  to  know,  and,  surely,  never 
asked,  whence  it  originated. 

Adrian  de  Marigni  had  not  been  seen  in  Paris  since 
his  mysterious  disappearance.  Blanche  hnd fondly  hoped 
that  he  might  be  found  in  the  dungeons  of  the  I'emple  ; 
but  when,  at  her  instance,  and  lor  this  sole  purpose,  it 
had  been  seized  and  converted  into  a  palace,  although 
she  had  personally,  at  midnight,  torch  in  hand,  searched 
every  vault,  and  well,  and  oubliette  and  in  jpace^  and  dun- 
geon, of  that  black  old  pile,  and  though  she  had  found 
many  victims,  she  found  not,  alas! — him  she  sought. 


288  THE  FIELD  OF  ST.  ANT0I2TE. 

And  tlie  Queen  of  Navarre  and  Philip  de  Launai,  her 
Norman  lover — the  single  star  yet  gleamed  nightly  from 
the  tall  tower  of  the  Hotel  of  Nesle,  and  nightly  the 
solitary  boatman  crossed  the  Seine  when  the  clock  of  St, 
Germain  I'Auxerroi^  tolled  the  half  hour  after  twelve. 

Jane  of  Burgimdy  had  given  birth  to  a  daughter  (who 
in  after  years  was  Isabella,  Dauphine  of  Viennois)  at  the 
Abbey  of  Maubuisson.  But  this  event  did  not  part  her 
from  her  handsome  Equerry,  her  beloved  Walter. 

Walter  and  Philip  were  both  Templars — as  has  been 
said — but  the  guardian  care  of  the  ladies  of  their  love 
saved  them  from  the  dungeon  and  the  rack. 

Louis  le  HiUin  passed  most  of  his  time  at  the  city  of 
Pampeluna,  the  capital  of  Upper  Navarre,  governing 
his  little  realm  a  little,  and  making  love  to  a  lovely 
Navarre  lady  a  good  deal. 

As  for  Charles  le  Bel  and  Philip  le  Long^  the  other 
two  sons  of  the  King,  (who,  each  of  them,  in  turn,  after 
their  elder  brother  Louis,  became  sovereign  of  France), 
they  lived  in  the  Louvre,  and  were  not  Templar  Knights, 
and  cared  very  little  who  were,  so  long  as  they  were 
permitted  undisturbed  to  prosecute  their  amours  and 
intrigues. 

Charles  of  Yalois,  disappointed  in  his  aspirations  for 
the  imperial  diadem,  was  in  camp  at  Courtray;  but  long 
since  he  had  replied  to  the  anxious  inquiries  of  the  Min- 
ister that  his  son  had  not  joined  his  regiment,  nor  been 
heard  of  since  sent  to  Paris  with  despatches,  nearly 
three  years  before. 

And   Marie   Morfontaine,    the  poor  and  friendless 


THE  FIELD  OF  ST.  ANTOI^^E.  289 


brpliau  heiress — but  wo— friendless  she  was  not — for,  by 
one  of  those  strange  revulsions  of  tlie  human  heart, 
wiiich  are  sometimes  witnessed,  the  Countess  of  Marche 
now  had  the  young  girl — pale,  thin,  miserable,  as  she 
was — forever  at  her  sid3  1  She  seemed  now  the  only 
beino-  that  Blanche  of  Artois  loved  !    She  would  some- 

o 

times  clasp  her  to  her  heart,  and  for  hours  these  two 
women  would  mingle  their  tears. 

And  Marie  Morfontaine  loved  Blanche,  despite  all  the 
irreparable  harm  she  had  done  her!  And,  despite  all  the 
irreparaljle  harm  each  had  done  the  other — and  perhaps 
for  that  very  reason — who  knows'/ — they  seemed  now  to 
cling  to  each  other  with  a  sti-onger  grasp — witli  the 
grasp  of  death  itself.  Alas  !  they  were  each  to  the 
other  the  sole  remembrancer  of  the  onlv  man  eacli  had 
ever  truly  loved  !  They  loved  each  other — bereaved 
and  wretched  as  they  were — for  the  very  reason  that 
each  had  loved  him — lost, — lost  now  foi-ever  to  them 
both!  And  as  their  love  had  the  same  object,  so  had 
their  revenge  1 

Edmond  de  Goth  still  remained  at  the  French  Court, 
the  most  patient  and  the  most  devoted  lover  of  the  age! 
True,  his  love  did  not  seem  to  pale  his  cheek  much, 
nor  to  dim  his  eye,  nor  to  diminish  his  bulk.  Xot  at 
all,  indeed.  His  sorrowing  and  sighing — if,  peradven- 
ture,  the  worthy  man  knew  what  it  was  to  sorrow  or  to 
sigh — seemed  to  have  had  the  same  eftect  on  his  form 
as  they  had  oir  that  of  Shakspeare's  Sir  John  of  Wind- 
sor— they  "puffed  it  up  like  a  bladder:" — and  for  this 
reason,  and  for  no  othe-r,  indeed,  might  he  say,  "  A 


290 


THE  FIELD  OF  ST.  ANTOINE. 


plague  on  it!"  Yet  why  sliould  lie  sorrow  or  sigli  ? 
True,  Marie  Morfontaiiie  did  not  love  liim.  She  had 
told  him  so  an  hundred  times.  But  then  she  had  also 
said  on  the  self-same  hundred  times  that  she  did  not 
love  anybody  else.  And  what  could  a  reasonable  lover 
require  more,  forsooth?  Besides,  to  tell  the  truth,  he 
had  to  confess,  even  to  himself,  that  he  was  not,  after 
all,  actually,  very  deplorably  and  wretchedly  in  love 
with  the  young  heiress.  It  would  have  been  a  fierce 
flame,  indeed,  and  perfectly  vestal  in  its  im mortal! t}^,  if 
in  nothing  else,  to  have  blazed  up  against  the  almost 
daily  quenchings  she  poured  u.pon  it.  Finallj^,  though 
Marie  Morfontaine  did  not  love  him,  and  was  every  day 
fading,  fading  and  losing  her  beauty  of  face  and  form, 
yet  it  was  some  consolation — (to  one  who  hoped  against 
hope,  tl^at  in  very  despair,  and  actually  to  get  rid  of 
him,  she  might  possibly,  at  some  distant  day,  perchance, 
take  him  for  her  lord) — that  her  immense  estates  in 
Kormandy  were  every  day  becoming  more  and  more 
valuable!  Why  slioiild  he  grieve?  He  ate,  slept,  drank, 
dressed  and  flirted  as  usual: — why  pity /zzm.^  Pshaw! 
Why.  waste  so  many  words  on  him  ? 

Thus  passed  away  the  summer,  and  the  autumn  and 
winter  of  1309,  at  the  Court  of  France.  The  l^emplar 
Knights,  although  they  freely  admitted  themselves  guilty 
of  every  crime  they  were  asked  to  admit,  whether  pos- 
sible or  impossible,  were  still  retained  in  their  dungeons. 
It  was  plain  that  the  scheme  of  the  Grand  Master  did 
not  result  as  lie  had  hoped.  That  scheme  ihe  penetra- 
ting mind  of  Blanche  of  Artois  had,  from  the  fii'st,  thor- 


THE  FIELD  OF  ST.  AXTOIXE. 


291 


oughly  detected  and  seen  tiirougli.  She  liad  now  waited 
the  prescribed  time,  and  slie  had  resolved  that  it  should 
avail  no  more — that  the  hated  order  should  not  be  saved. 
In  her  heai't  its  doom  had  already  long  been  sealed. 

Jacqnes  de  Molai,  Hugh  de  Pei'alde,  Guy  of  aSTormandy, 
and  the  Grand  Prior  of  Acquitaine  were  brought  from 
Chinon  to  the  Temple. 

Again,  despite  the  confessions  of  the  victims,  the  rack 
was  at  Avoriv  in  every  dungeon  in  Paris. 
■  The  result  was  exactly  that  Avhich  this  deep-plotting 
w^oinan  had  anticipated,  ^i'o  the  utter  astonishment  of 
every  one  but  hei'self,  almost  every  Templar,  who  before, 
without  compulsion  and  torture,  had  confessed  himself 
guilty  of  all  [)Ossible  and  impossible  crime,  now,  when 
stretched  upon  the  rack,  answered  not  a  word!  The 
secret  cipher,  the  royal  arch  cipher  was  again  at  work| 
"The  good  Templar  folloAvs  his  leader."  The  Grand 
Master  had  recanted ! 

Were  not  all  this  fact^  reader — historical  fact — the 
testimony  of  hundreds  of  foes  as  well  as  of  hundreds  of 
friends  of  the  Temple — it  would  be  too  strange  even  for 
the  purposes  of  fiction. 

Philip  had  been  embarrassed  b}^  the  confession  of  the 
Templars:  he  was  now  more  embarrassed  by  their  recant- 
ation. Xot  so  Blanche  of  Artois.  Relapsed  Heretics''' 
she  called  them ;  and  as  such  Avere  they  condemned;  and 
as  such  on  the  morning  of  Tuesday,  the  12th  of  May, 
1310,  were  fifty-nine  knights  of  the  fated  order — among 
whom  was  one  of  the  King's  own  chaplains — consumed 
at  the  stake  by  slow  iiJ-e,  in  a  field  behind  the  Abbey  of 


292 


THE  FIELD  OF  ST.  ANTOINE. 


St.  Antoine,  on  a  spot  tlien  in  tLe  suburbs  of  Paris,  now 
in  its  heart,  and  their  ashes  scattered  to  the  winds!  On 
the  same  day  many  provinces  of  France  \7itnessed  a  like 
spectacle. 

Over  this  horrible  massacre  presided  the  Archbishop 
of  Sens,  brother  of  Enguerrand  de  Marigni,  the  Minister, 
and  uncle  of  Adrian.  Each  one  of  the  victims  died 
asserting  steadfastly  the  innocence  of  all  and  the  honor 
of  the  order  with  his  last  breath.  liistory  relates  that, 
after  they  had  reached  the  spot,  life  and  Ireedom  were 
freely  proffered,  if  they  would  repeat  their  former  con- 
fession ;  but  the  imploring  prayers  of  friends  and  the  awful 
terrors  of  the  stake,  the  torches  of  which  already  blazed 
before  their  eyes,  could  not  shake  the  purpose  of  these 
iron  men.  They  were  chained  to  the  fatal  tree— smoke 
and  flame,  like  fiery  scorpions,  wreathed  their  suffering 
frames;  but,  so  long  as  their  voices  could  be  henrd, 
through  that  wild  whirlwind  of  conflagration,  only  the 
prayers  and  hymns  of  their  beloved  order,  and  their 
protestations  to  Heaven  of  their  innocence  could  be  dis- 
tinguished. 

This  was  awful!  Even  the  citizens  of  Paris — pois- 
oned as  were  their  prejudices  against  what  they  were 
taught  to  believe  an  infamous  frat)ernitv,  could  but  ex- 
press admiration  for  the  God-like  firmness  with  which 
the  martyred  Templars  met  their  end,  and  endured  their 
torments;  and  express  commiseration  for  their  fate,  and 
indignant  wrath  against  their  murderers ! 

But  there  was  one — a  pale  and  lovely  woman — who, 
from  the  tall  central  tower  of  the -Louvre,  looked  away 


THE  FIELD  OF  ST.  ANTOINE. 


293 


to  tlie  west,  and  viewed  tliose  flames  until  tliey  had 
ceased  to  gleam  against  the  darkening  horizon;  and  she 
pitied  not !  Alas  !  alas  !  she  even  exidted  in  her  fiendish 
and  horrible  work.  - 

But  a  dreadful  reckoning  was  at  hand — close  at  hand! 
As  she  descended  from  that  tower  and  entered  her  cham- 
ber, it  was  night;  and  in  her  hand  a  swift  courier  placed 
a  paper;  and  she  opened  that  paper  quickly  and  read; 
and  she  dropped  like  a  corpse  upon  the  ground! 

That  paper  contained  the  last  farewell  of  Adrian  de 
Marigni,  who  that  day,  by  virtue  of  a  general  order 
inspired  by  the  Countess  of  Marche,  had  perished  at  the 
stake,  consumed  by  slow  fire,  as  a  Knight  Templar 
who  would  not  confess,  before  the  priory  of  Yosges,  in 
the  province  of  Lorraine!" 

*  At  Penlis  nine  Templars  perished  at  the  stake  and  four  others  shared  their 
fate  a  few  months  hiter.  At  Pont-de-rArche  and  (  arcassone  several  knights 
were  burnt.  Thibault.  Duke  of  Lorraine,  a  friend  of  Philip,  put  a  laree  nmn- 
her  to  death,  and  seized  the  floods  of  their  Preceptory.  In  tlie  churcli  of  Gav- 
arnic,  a  liamlet  of  the  Pyrenees,  on  tlie  route  to  Spain,  are  sliown  twelve 
sliulls,  said  to  be  those  'of  Templars  beheaded  at  that  place.  At  Kimes, 
Troyes.  Caen,  Bigorre,  Cahors,  Poitiers,  Bayeux.  Metz,  Toul,  Derdun  and 
numerous  other  places,  the  order  was  subjecTed  to  the  torturs.  In  £'pain  aud 
Italy  the  rack  was  also  applied  to  wring  confession. 


294  THE  GRAND  MASTER  IX  ^'OTRE  DAME. 


CHAPTEE  XXV. 

THE  GRAND  MASTER  IN  NOTRE  DAME. 

HAPPY  had  it  been  for  Blanclie  of  Artois  Lad  slie 
from  that  deep  and  death -like  slumber  never 
awakened ! 

But  the  miserable  do  not  die !  They  who  court  dentli 
seldom  win  it.  There  is  in  wretchedness  a  power  of 
embalment,  which  seems  to  confer  on  its  victim  the  fear- 
ful boon  of  earthly  immortality  1  Like  that  line  in 
mathematical  science  which  ever  approaches,  yet  never 
attains  the  point  at  which  it  aims, — -like  the  Hebrew 
wanderer  who  forever  sought  death,  amid  the  scenes  of 
its  wildest  ravages;  yet  never  found  it, — thus  would  it 
seem  that  the  miserable  are  forever  forced  to  hve;  while 
the  poor,  shuddering,  terrified,  ti'embling  wretch,  to 
whom  life  is  dear,  and  who,  witli  terrible  tenacity,  clings 
to  it,  is  torn  bleeding  away  and  hurried  i'rom  the  earth! 

The  ways  of  Providence  are,  indeed,  mysterious!  In 
her  grand  and  majestic  march,  how  little  heeds  she  those 
who  are  crushed  beneath  her  tread ! 

Hnppy  had  it  been  for  Blanclie  of  Artois  could  she 
then  have  died ! 

Mar^e  Morfontaine  chanced  to  be  in  th^  apartment  of 
the  Countess  when  she  entered,  and  instantly  rendered 
that  aid  which  all  of  Eve's  suffering  daughters  know  so 


THE  GRAND  MASTER  IN  NOTRE  DAME. 


295 


well  how  to  administer  to  eacli  other's  ills.  Through 
her  active  attention,  Blanche  soon  evinced  symptoms  of 
returning  life ;  and,  having  opened  her  eyes,  gazed  wildly 
around. 

At  length  her  gaze  fell  upon  the  young  orphan,  and 
clinging  to  her  frail  form,  as  if  for  succor,  slie  murmured : 

"  What, — what  is  it,  Marie  ?  " 

''You  have  been  ill,  madame,"  was  the  soft  reply. 

''111?"  muttered  the  Countess,  after  a  pause.  "Am  I 
not  always  ill?  "  Then  suddenly  throwing  her  hand  to 
her  forehead,  she  added,  "Tell  me,  what  has  happened?  " 

"I  only  know,  madame,"  replied  the  orphan,  "that  I 
heard  a  fall,  and  hastened  out,  and  found  you  at  your  • 
door  in  a  swoon.     I  also  found  lying  beside  you  this 
paper,"  she  continued,  presenting  the  fatal  note. 

Instantly  the  whole  subject  flashed  back  on  the  mind 
of  the  Countess,  and  for  some  moments  she  seemed 
again  about  to  pass  into  her  former  unconscious  state. 

But  Blanche  of  Artois  had  a  masculine  mind,  in  a  ' 
"frame  of  iron  inherited  from  a  long  line  of  heroic 
.ancestors;  and  that  mind  gradually  assumed  its  ascen- 
dency over  that  frame. 

"  Give  me  that  paper  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

She  was  obeyed,  and  with  a  shudder  it  was  thrust  into 
her  bosom. 

"  Now,  Marie,  put  me  to  bed,"  she  added  more  calmly  ; 
"  I  am  weary — very  wear}^" 

"  Shall  I  call  your  women,  madame  ?  "  asked  Marie. 

"  No,  no,  no !  call  no  one ! — assist  me  to  the  couch," 
was  the  low  reply. 


296 


THE  GRAND  MASTEK  IN  NOTRE  DAME. 


The  orphan  obej^ed. 

"  Shall  I  remain  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes,"  said  the  Countess  ;  "  and  if  you  be- 
come weary,  lie  beside  me." 

Hour  after  hour — hour  after  hour,  through  the  long 
and  silent  night  watches,  did  Marie  Morfoiitaine  sit 
beside  that  unhappy  woman,  and  gaze  on  that  pale  and 
lovely  face,  faintly  lighted  by  the  rays  of  tie  distant 
lamp  ;  and  hour  after  hour  heard  she  the  iron  tongue  of 
Time  record  its  lapse.  And,  oh,  the  many  miserable 
thoughts  which,  passed  through  her  mind — the  many 
agonizing  feelings  that  filled  her  breast !  But  the  pale 
slumberer — she  pioved  not — scarcely  seemed  to  breathe'; 
and  at  length  Marie  Morfontaine  obeyed  her  injunction, 
and  laid  herself  beside  her  on  the  couch,  and,  shortly, 
soundly  slept. 

But  Blanche  of  Artois  slept  not — she  woke  not — 
dreamed  not ;  her  mind  and  her  senses  seemed  steeped 
in  stupor. 

And  thus  was  it  even  until  the  morning  dawn. 
^  One  \yould  have  supposed,  after  all  Blanche  of  Artois 
had  endured,  she  could  hardly  have  experienced  a  new 
toi'ture,  either  of  body  or  of  mind. 

But  the  heart,  after  all,  is  but  a  portion  of  the  physi- 
cal being.  Agony  may  be  elicited  by  the  application  of 
torture  to  one  of  its  parts,  which  to  the  sufferer  may 
seem  to  embrace  all  of  suffering  which  humanity  can 
endure  ;  yet,' let  a  different  species  of  torment  be  ap})lied 
to  the  same  spot,  or,  let  the  same  species  of  torment  be 
applied  to  another,  and  the  victim  writhes  in  anguish,  as 


THE  GRAXD  YA5TEH  IX  XOTRE  DA^IE,  297 


if  Le  liad  never  ^vritlied  before,  nor  tliouglit  that  art  liacl 
exliausted  lier  tortures. 

Even  tlius  was  it  ^vitli  Blanche  of  Arto:s.  She  bad 
suffered — she  ihouc/ht  she  had  siitiered  a//  that  the  human 
heart  could  suffer.  But,  ahis  I  sLe  found  it  vas  not  so 
-vlien  the  conviction  came  home  to  her  that  her  own 
order  had  consigned  to  death,  by  most  awful  and  linger- 
ing- torments,  him.  vrhoni  more  than  all  earthly  beings — - 
wdiorn  more  tlian  her  own  soul,  wdiom  more  than  her 
God  Himself,  she  had  loved  ! 

Amid  all  her  sufferings,  hitherto,  had  still  existed  hope 
— the  hope,  however  faint,  that  she  might  yet.  before  she 
died,  clasp  her  idol  to  her  heart.  iHope  now  was  dead. 
In  its  place  was  born  despair,  and  from  the  incestuous 
nnion  of  despair  and  hate  was  begotten  a  new  existence 
— a  terrible  revenge  ! 

She  could  not  perceive — poor  woman,  blinded  as  she 
was  by  intolerable  angnish — that  she  had  lierself  doomed 
her  lover  to  an  aAvful  death — first  by  her  Avild  love,  and 
afterwards  by  her  wilder  vengeance.  As  for  the  un- 
happy orphan,  she  pitied  her,  loved  her — even  despised 
her,  too  thoroughly  to  blame  her  for  any  part  she  might 
have  acted  in  this  fatal  tragedy.  But  there  was  one 
being  on  whom  now  all  the  intense  and  concentrated  and 
virulent  rancor  of  her  strong  soul  concentred — liim 
whom,  from  tl:e  hrst,  she  had  viewed  as  the  author  of  all 
her  ruin.  That  man  was  Jacr|iies  de  Molai.  Grand  iMas- 
ter  of  the  Templar  Knights,  and  on  his  devoted  head 
she  resolved  to  wreak  all  the  fearful  vengeance  of  her 
fancied  wrongs  and  her  teriible  tortures. 


298 


THE  GRAND  MASTER  IN  NOTRE  DAME. 


In  tliis  office  of  revenge,  slie  was  aided  by  anotlier, 
wlio  too  late  discovered  that  lie  had  been  exercising 
cruelty  against  tlie  Templars,  only  to  destroy  bis  own 
dearest  object  in  life,  and  as  it  were,  too,  with  bis  own 
hands.  That  m  an  was  Enguerrand  cle  Marigni ;  for,  shortly 
after  the  communication  to  Blanche  of  Artois  of  the  sac- 
rifice of  Adrian,  his  only  son,  as  a  Templar,  in  a  remote 
section  of  the  realm,  the  same  dreadful  intelligence  came 
to  himself.  The  Minister  had  always  been  an  -uncom- 
promising foe  of  the  Templars;  but  never,  amid  his 
wildest  visions,  had  he  dreamed  that  he  was  exerting  all 
his  energies  for  the  destruction  of  an  order  of  which  his 
beloved  son  was  a  member  ;  and  that,  directly  through 
those  efforts,  that  son  would  be  consigned  to  a  dreadful 
death!  On  the  first  intelligence,  he  was  overwhelmed 
with  grief  and  dismay.  But  the  lapse  of  time,  which 
heals  all  wounds,  healed  even  this,  the  most  deep  in  a 
parental  breast ;  and  into  that  breast,  as  into  that  ot* 
Blanche  of  Artois,  entered — not  the  pure  spirit  of  for- 
giveness, but  the  fell  spirit  of  revenge. 

To  commit)  Jacques  de  Molai  and  his  Grand  Officers  to 
the  stake — to  sweep  from  existence  tliat  order,  by  them 
more  dearly  loved  than  life  itself,  and  to  confiscate  its 
immense  estates  in  France  to  the  crown — such  were  now 
the  three  several  purposes  of  three  individuals  :  Blanche 
of  Artois,  Enguerrand  de  Marigni  and  Philip  le  Bel. 

To  the  death  of  Jacques  de  Molai  were  devoted  all  the 
energies  of  the  Countess  for  the  loss  of  her  lovei' ;  noth- 
ing less  than  the  utter  annihilation  of  the  hated  order 
could  appease  the  vengeance  of  the  Minister  for  the  loss 


THE  GRAND  MASTER  IN  NOTRE  DAME;  29^^ 


of  Ilis  son  ;  and  the  rapacious  spirit  of  the  King  had, 
from  the  first,  regarded  the  vast  re  venues  of  the  Templars 
as  the  only  means  by  wLich  to  sustain  his  power,  and  to 
relieve  i^'s  realm  from  the  impending  financial  nun, 
brought  on  by  his  protracted  wars  with  England,  FJau- 
ders,  and  Bom  face  Eighth. 

But  in  the  final  decis'on  oP  the  fate  of  the  Temple 
and  its  Grand  Officers,  Pope  Clement  Fifth  claimed, — and 
rightfully  claimed,— to  be  the  lord  paramount;  while  it 
had  alread}'  been  decided,  as  he  understood,  by  the  com- 
pact of  May,  130S,  between  the  King  and  himself,  that/ 
in  event  of  the  abolition  of  the  order,  its  vast  wealth 
sliould  revert  to  the  Papal  See,  for  the  defence  of  the 
Iloly  Land.  :.  ■      v  .-  ;  T  - 

Bertrand  de  Groth  had  never  forgotten  nor  forgiv^en  the 
insults  of  Philip,  at  the  x\bbey  of  St.  Jean  d'Angcly,  nor' 
those  at  the  subsequent  interview  at  Poitiers.  ISTor  had- 
he  forgotten  that  the  Eoman  Pontiff  was  the  appellate, 
chief  of  the  Templars,  and  that,  for  two  centuries,  these 
mailed  monks  had  been  tl;e  u.nfaltering  supporters  of  the 
successors  of  St.  Peter,  even  against  the  King  of  France^ 
himself.  But  Bertrand  de  Goth  was  neither  a  great' 
man  nor  a  good  man,  and  he  long  since  had  learned  that 
he  had  to  deal  with  a  man  as  unscrupulous  as  he  Avas' 
powerful; — a  man  wdio  had  made  alF  that  he  was,, 
and  who,  as  he  had  planted  him  on  a  throne  which  he? 
had  vacated  by  the  removal  of  two  of  his  predecessors,"^^' 
might  also,  if  it  so  seemed  good  to  him,  ]'emove  himself  ^ 

*  Boniface  VITT.  and  Benedict  XT.  are  both  supposed  to  have  owed  their 
death  to  Philip  Ze^e?,  indirectly  if  not  directly.  -  \    '  '  [ 

19  '     '  - ^ '  


300 


THE  GllAND  MASTER  IN  NOTRE  DAME, 


to  make  room  for  a  more  pliaat  tool, — a  more  subservient 
and  submissive  slave.  To  preserve  the  lives  of  a  large 
number  of  Templars  who  had  perished,  he  had  found  to 
exceed  his  power.  He  had  himself  been  compelled  to  pre- 
side over  the  examination  of  seveiitj-two  of  the  order,  at 
Avignon,  ^vho  had  confessed  everj^  charge  of  which  they 
were  accused.  It  might  exceed  his  power,  or  his  will  to 
exercise  that  power,  to  preserve  the  Grand  Master  and  his 
companions  from  the  stake,  or  to  prevent  the  abolition 
of  the  order.  But  on  one  point  he  was  resolute :  rather 
than  suffer  the  vast  revenues  and  immense  estates  of  the 
Temple  to  revert  to  the  coffers  of  Philip  of  France,  he 
was  determined  tliat,  not  only  his  pontifical  power,  but 
his  life  itself  should  be  the  sacrifice. 

This  Philip  understood  and  comported  himself  accord- 
ingly, and,  in  compliance  with  the  demand  of  Clement, 
and  in  pursuance  of  his  appointment,  on  the  7th  of 
August,  1310,  several  months  after  the  martyrdom  of  the 
Templars  in  the  field  of  St.  Antoine,  there  convened  a 
Papal  Commission  of  eight  Ecclesiastics  in  the  Cathe- 
dral Church  of  ISTotre  Dame,  who  cited  the  whole  Order 
of  the  Templars  to  appear  before  them."^ 


*  Authorities  conflict  as  to  the  chronology  of  the  chief  incidents  of  the  per- 
secution of  the  Temple.  Some  historians  state  that  a  Papal  Commission,  in 
August,  1309,  cited  the  Templars  to  Paris  to  defend  their  order:— that,  in 
March,  1310,  there  were  900  knights  in  Paris,  and  that  546  came  before  the 
Commission  sitting  in  tiie  Bishop's  garden  in  the  rear  of  Notre  Dame  and 
selected  75  of  their  number  as  cliamplons:— that,  in  April.  21  witnesses  were 
produced,  and  13  examined:— that  Pliilip  de  Mai  igni,  Bisiiop  of  Cambray,  was 
there  made  Archbishop  of  Sens  by  the  King,  and  at  once  convened  a  provin- 
cial council  of  his  diocese  at  Paris;  and  tliat.  May  12th,  three  days  afterward, 
54  of  the  Temnlars  wlio  had  been  chosen  to  defend  the  order  were,  ui)on  sen- 
tence of  tliis  ouncil,  burned,  in  tlie  field  of  St.  Antoipe,  notwithstanding  the 
most  vehement  remonstrance  of  the  Papal  Connnl  -sion  at  perfidy  so  infa- 
mous. Those  who  confessed  and  retracted  and  persisted  in  that  retraction 
were  burnt  as  "re/a^>.se(? /(ere^/cs,*  "  those  wlio  did  not  confess  were  impris- 
oned as  unreconciled  Templars;''''  and  those  who  persisted  in  their  confes- 
sion were  set  at  liberty  as  '■'reconciled  Templars!^* 


THE  GKAXD  MASTER  IN  XOTEE  DA:^IE. 


801 


On  the  26tli  day  of  November  ensuing^  the  Commis- 
sion again  assembled  in  tlie  same  place,  thronged  with 
the  citizens  of  Paris,  and  Jacques  de  Molai  was  brought 
before  it  loaded  with  chains,  and  pale  and  emaciated  by 
long  imprisonment.  On  his  being  arraigned,  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  Council,  Cardinal  de  Praio,  demanded  in  a 
loud  voice:  . • 

"Jacques  de  Molai,  Grand  Master  of  lhe  Order  of  the 
Temple,  3^ou  stand  before  a  council  of  Prelates  commis- 
sioned bj  His  iEIoliness,  the  Sovereign  Pontiff,  to  exam- 
ine you,  as  touching  many  high  heinous  crimes,  of  the 
which  you  and  your  order  are  credibly  accused.  To  these 
charges  what  say  you?  " 

"These  accusations  are  not  new,  Lord  Cardinal," 
replied  the  prisoner,  firmly.  "I  have  already  pleaded 
^to  this  indictment  in  the  behalf  of  myself  and  my  order. 
And,  yet,  methinks  that  the  Holy  Church  proceeds  with 
unwonted  precipitancy  in  this  cause,  when  it  is  recalled 
that  the  sentence  relative  to  the  Emperor  Frederic  w^as 
suspended  for  more  than  thirty  years." 

"Jacques  de  Molai,"  rejoined  the  Cardinal,  sternly, 
"what  have  you  to  say  why  a  decree  of  abolition 
should  not  be  recorded  by  this  Commission  against  the 
order  of  which  you  are  chief?  " 

The  Grand  Master  started.  It  was  plain  he  was 
unprepared  for  a  proposition  so  summarj^  But,  quickly 
recovering,  he  replied  w'ith  his  usual  firmness  : 

"And  is  this  council  of  noblest  Prelates  assembled  in 
this  ancient  edifice,  by  authority  of  His  Holiness,  the 
Sovereign  Pontiff,  to  deliberate  on  the  abolition  of  an 


g02'  THE  GEAND  MASTER  II>r  ITOTEE  DAME: 

order,  foandecl  bj  pious  kniglits,  to  defend  the  Temple, 
and  confirmed  by  the  Apostolic  See  itself,  and,  wHch, 
for  two  Imiidred  years,  in  the  presence  of  all  Christen- 
dom and  Heathenesse,  lias  poured  forth,  its  blood  lilve 
water,  for  the  cause  of  the  Mother  Church?" 
.  "Not  for  the  good  deeds  of  this  order,"  replied  tlie  Car- 
dinal, "but  for  its  manifold  evil  deeds,  do  we  now  delib- 
erate, by  command  of  the  Holy  Father,  on  the  question 
of  its  final  extinction,  and  for  this  do  we  now  demand  of 
you,  Jacques  de  Molai,  its  chief,  what  have  you  to  say 
why  such,  decree  should  not  be  recorded?" 

"Primates  of  the  Church,"  said  De  Molai,  stretching 
forth  his  manacled  hands,  "  you  are  rightly  informed  that 
1  am  the  Grand  Master  of  a  persecuted  order;  and,  for  the 
honor  thus  bestowed  upon  me,  wretch,  indeed,  should  I' 
be,  did  I  not  raise  my  voice  in. its  behalf,  and  in  defence 
of  its  noble  sons  so  foully  calumniated.  But,  Primates, 
I  am  a  soldier, — not  a  scholar.  These  hands  have  been 
more  familiar  with  the  hilt  of  a  battle-sword  than  with 
a  pen,  I  am  unlearned,  also,  both  in  civil  and  ecclesiastical- 
law,  utterly  unused  to  forensic  debate,  or  the  subtilty  of 
dialectics.  Indeed,  I  know  not  even  the  forms  of  courts, 
nor  their  modes  of  procedure,  and  sliould  prove  as  ut-^ 
terly  unequal  to  cope  with  my  scholastic  accusers  before; 
this  council,  as,  perchance,  they  might  prove  unequal  to 
compete  with  the  humblest  of  my  knights  in  open  lists. 
Oh,"  lie  exclaimed,  raising  his  clasped  and  fettered  hands 
with  his  eyes  to  Heaven, — "oli,  for  one  fair  field,  witli 
our  brave  battle-steeds  beneath  us,  and  our  good  battle- 
brands  in  oar  mailed  grasp,  and  a  whole  Avorld  of  armed- 


THE  GRAIsD  PIASTER  IX  XOTRE  DA3IE.  303. 


foes  before  us  I  But,  alasl  alas!"  tlie  olJ  Fxian  satll}^ 
added,  Avliile  his  mauacled  liands  fell  witli  a  crash  at  liis 
sides,  and  the  proud  exultation  of  his  beariug  ^vas  suc- 
ceeded bv  the  gloom  of  depression — "  ^ve  are  Loiis  snared 
in  a  net  I  " 

.  A  murmiir  of  admiration  and  sympathy  ran  through 
the  muhitude. 

''Jacques  de  Molai,"  cried  the  Cardinal,  after  a  pause 
of  considerable  duration,  "for  the  third  and  the  last 
time,  I  ask,  do  you  defend  the  order  of  which  you  are 
chiel"? 

''I  do— I  do  !  "  eagerly  answered  De  Molai.    "  But  I 

am  unlearned  in  the  law, — am  very  illiterate, — I  can 
hardly  read  or  write, — I  have  onl\'  one  servant, — T  am 
very  poor. — they  have  taken  all  my  money  except  four 
deniers; — I  demand  counsel  for  the  Temple,  to  be  paid 
f^om  those  treasures  of  the  Temple,  brought  by  myself 
into  this  city,  to  aid  me  in  tids  defence.""^ 

In  a  charge  of  heresy  the  accused  is  entitled  to  no 
counsel,"'  replied  De  PratcH 

Tiien,  as  chief  of  the  Templars,  I  declare  myself  the 
champion  of  the  order  I"  cried  the  soldier-priest  intones 
that  reverberated  like  thunder  through  those  Cathedral 
aisles  and  along  those  Gothic  arches:  ''and  here  I  take 
my  stand,  and  throw  my  gage,  and  demand  my  trial  bj- 
hattel^  and  pledge  myself  to  fight,  until  the  death,  all  and 
any  ten  knights,  in  succession,  Avho  ma}^  come  against 

*  Heui'v  Capetal,  Governor  of  the- Grand  Cbatelet.  confessed  tliat  lie  arrestea 
seven  persons,  who  were  denounced  as  being  Templars  in  a  lay  habit,  w  ho  ha(J 
come  to  Paris,  with  moaey.  in  order  to  procure  advocates  for  the  accused— 
and  had  put  tliem  to  the  to'rtare !  And  yet  they  came  in  accordance  vatli  the 
■elraiiou  ol -the  Papal  CommissiouL    .  -    -         _     _  ^  - 


801 


THE  GRAND  MASTER  IN  NOTRE  DAME. 


me,  ill  fair  field  cbosen,  and  appearing  in  behalf  of  our 
accusers.  And,  if  I  fail  to  prove  eacli  one  and  all  of 
those  ten  champions  false,  then  let  me  be  consigned  to 
the  rack  and  the  stake,  and  my  name  to  infamy,  and  my 
beloved  and  holy  order  to  oblivion  !" 

Again  tlie  people  expressed  their  admiration  in  sup- 
pressed murmurs. 

"The  Church  of  God  wars  not  with  carnal  weapons !" 
coldly  replied  De  Prato,  who,  despite  himself  was  moved 
by  the  chivalric  and  noble  bearing  of  that  bold  old  man. 

And,  oh,  bethink  thee,  knight,  before  thou  dost  embark 
in  this  desperate  enterprise,  how  poorly  thou  art  pre- 
pared, even  were  counsel  allotted  thee,  to  defend  an 
order,  which  thou  hast,  thyself,  accused  of  liomble 
crimes ! " 

"  Which  I — /,  Jacques  de  Molai,  chief  of  the  Tem- 
plars, have  accused  ?  "  fiercely  interrupted  the  old  sol- 
dier. 

"  Thou,  Jacques  de  Molai,  chief  of  the  Templars,"  was 
the  reply. 

"  When  ? — where  ?  "  he  furiously  demanded. 

"  On  the  night  of  the  eighth  day  of  August,  1308,  in 
the  Question  Chamber  of  the  Castle  of  Chinon,"  said  De 
Prato. 

»  'Tis  false— false  as  hell !  "  shouted  de  Molai.  "  That 
night  I  remember  well.  I  have  some  reason  to  remem- 
ber it  well,"  he  added,  Avith  a  bitter  and  significant 
smile,  shaking  his  head.  "For  reasons  which  I  then 
deemed  wise  and  right,  every  charge  against  myself  I 
admitted  true,  whatever  that  charge  might  be.    If  ia 


THE  GEAXD  MASTER  IX  XOTEE  DA^^IE.  805 


SO  doing  I  did  Tin  wisely, — as  o^'ten  since  I  liave  feared, 
— tlien,  tlie  good  God  furgive  me !  But  that  I  then  or 
there,  or  at  any  time  or  anvwliere,  admitted  any  charge 
whatsoever  against  my  beloved  order — why,  that  is 
irivpossiblej''  he  added,  with  a  bitter  Laugh,  at  the  same 
time  lowering  his  tone.  "  But  you  can  easily  test  tbat 
on  the  spot.  Bring  forth  your  instruments  of  torture 
and  try  me  where  I  stand  !  " 

"Tliereis  an  easier  mode  by  which  to  prove  thee  false, 
prisoner,''  said  the  Cardinal.  ''Let  the  record  of  the  con- 
fession of  Jacques  de  Molai  at  the  Castle  of  Chinon  be 
read  1  " 

The  clerk  immediately  rose  and  began  reading  the 
record.  Every  crime  there  confessed  by  De  Molai 
against  himself  was  so  interpolated  and  falsified  as  to 
have  become  an  a'lmission  of  charges  against  the  whole 
order,  and  against  all  its  members  ! 

Overwhelmed  with  indignation  and  wonder,  De  Molai 
remained  silent  while  the  reading  was  going  on,  but 
repeatedly  crossed  himself  and  raised  his  eyes  to 
Heaven. 

"Jacques  de  Molai,"  said  the  Cardinal,  when  the  doc- 
ument had  been  completed,  together  Avitli  the  names  of 
the  Grand  Inquisitor  and  his  two  assistants,  by  whom  it 
was  subscribed — "  to  this — your  confession,  what  say 
you?" 

"  Were  T  free,  and  Avere  the  men  whose  names  are 
subscribed  to  that  paper  anything  but  priests,"  replied 
the  knight  in  low  tones,  "  I  should  say  nothing,  I 
should  act !  " 


806 


^HE  GRAND  MASTER  IN  NOTRE  DAME. 


"  Do  jou  deny  tlie  truth  of  this  record?  " 

"Most  unquestionably  I  do;  and  most  unqualifiedly  I 
do,  also,  here  declare  those  men  to  be  liars  and  forgers, 
and  richly  meriting  tlie  fate  inflicted  on  such  criminals 
by  Tartars  and  Saracens, — whose  hearts  they  tear  out, 
and'  whose  heads  they  strike  off'I  " 

At  these  words  the  multitude  burst  into  admiring' 
and  indignant  shouts. 

"  The  session  is  adjourned !"  cried  Do  Prato,  rising 
in  alarm  with  the  whole  council.  "  Guards,  look  to  your 
prisoner  ! 

*  *  -sT  ^  * 

.  And  the  noble  old  warrior  was  conducted  to  his  dun- 
geon, and  his  cowardly  assailants  repaired  to  the  Palace: 
of  the  Temple  to  confer  with  the  King. 


THE  POLITIC  PRI^'CE  THE  POLITIC  PRELATE.  307 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  POLITIC  PRI>:CE  AXD  THE  POLITIC  PRELATE. 

PHILIP  the  Fonrtli  of  France  was  a  bold,  energetic 
and  de:spotic  prince;  but  lie  was,  also,  a  wise  and 
politic  one. 

lie  knew  Lis  people  well.  He  knew  well  wkat  they 
would  endure,  and  he  knew  well  what  they  would  not 
endure.  He  had  reason  to  know.  His  wisdom  had 
been  bought  by  a  somewhat  dear  experience. 

By  the  death  of  his  father,  Philip  the  Third,  or.  the 
Hardy,  in  1285,  he  ascended  the  throne  of  France,  being 
then  only  in  his  seventeenth  year:  and,  from  that  hour 
to  the  hour  of  his  death,  never  was  royal  prerogative 
more  sternly  sustained  than  by  him.  It  was  to  sustain 
the  prerogatives  of  a  Sovereign  of  France  that  he  did 
battle,  for  five  fuil  years,  with  Edward  ti.e  First  of- 
England  :  to  sustain  those  same  prerogatives,  he  waged  a 
bloody  war,  for  eight  years  longer,  with  Guy,  Count  of 
Flanders:  and,  again,  to  maintain  those  prerogatives,  even 
against  the  spiritual  supreme  of  Christendom,  he  braved 
all  the  thunders  of  the  Vatican,  for  seven  full  years,  in  a 
contest  which  only  ceased  with  the  terrible  death  of  his 
foe.— or.  more  properly,  his  victim. 

-  But  this  incessant  warfare,  though  invariablv  success- 
lul,  was  expensive,  and  involved  the  enterprising  mon- 
arch in  extreme  liuancial  embarrassment,  .  To  relieve 


308     THE  POLITIC  PRINCE  AND  THE  POLITIC  PRELATE. 


this,  lie  Lad  recourse  to  tlie  usual  resort  of  princes  at 
that  era,  in  such  einergencies  : — he  debased  the  coin  of 
his  realm,  and,  at  the  same  time,  enhanced  its  nominal 
value.  To  such  ^'shameful  and  ridiculous  excess"  was 
this  debasement  and  enhancement  carried,  that  one  denier 
of  the  stamp  of  1300  was  worth  three  deniers  of  the 
stan)p  of  1806;  and,  yet,  under  severest  penalties,  he 
commanded  all  men  to  receive  the  base  coin  at  the  same 
value  as  the  true  1  But  there  was  a  scarcity  of  precious 
metal  as  well  as  of  coin.  To  obviate  this,  he  forced  all 
his  subjects,  the  barons  and  prelates  only  excepted,  to 
bear  one-half  of  all  their  silver  plate  to  the  mint!  The 
exportation  of  gold  and  the  hoarding  of  specie  were 
declared  capital  crimes!  Imposts  were  enormous,  and 
the  direct  tax  on  each  individual  was  one-fifth  part  of 
all  his  revenue;  while  fi:ve  hundred  livres  of  income 
paid  twenty-five  livres  tax  ! 

The  unhappy  Hebrews  presented  to  Philip,  as  to  every 
other  Prince  of  Europe  of  that  age,  another,  and  a  most 
fruitful  source  of  plunder,  of  which  he  scrupled  not  to 
avail  himself;  and,  at  length,  in  the  year  1305,  came  the 
grand  blow  upon  this  injured  people.  An  ordinance — 
(like  that  subsequently  against  the  Templars) — was 
issued  upon  special  permission  of  Clement  Fifth,  by 
which  every  Jew  in  the  realm  was  arrested,  at  the  hour 
of  noon,  on  the  festival  of  St.  Madelaine,  when  all  were 
on  their  knees  in  their  synagogues:  and  every  man  was 
banished  the  kingdom, — forbidden  to  return  under  pen- 
alty of  immediate  execution, — and  suffered  to  take  v/ith 
Lim  no  more  of  his  effects  than  would  defray  his  expenses 


THE  POLITIC  PRIXCE  AND  THE  POLITIC  PRELATE.  309 


to  tlie  frontiers.  Manj  of  tlie  poor  wretclies  perished 
hy  the  way;  some  few  loved  their  gold  better  thnii 
tlieir  lives  and  some  loved  their  lives  better  than  their 
roligioa,  and  received  the  baptismal  sign;  but  all  were 
reduced  to  abject  poverty,  and,  of  course,  as  their  sole 
recompense,  every  Hebrew  of  them  all  cursed  Philip  the 
Fourth  of  France  by  Abraham,  and  Isaac,  and  Jacob, 
and  all  the  patriarchs  and  prophets  of  the  old  Testa- 
ment, to  their  very  soul's  content!  And  it  is  quite 
probable  that  there  did  not  come  a  single  curse  amiss !  ^ 
But  the  Jews  were  not  the  only  people  in  France  who 
cursed  Pliilip  le  Bel.  His  own  subjects, — Frenchmen, — • 
descendants  of  the  stern  old  Gauls,  and  but  a  few  cen- 
turies removed, — cursed  him  for  h's  extortions  and 
cruelties.  At  lens-th  came  an  emeute — an  insurrection, 
= — a  three-days  " — a  Revolution,  exactly  as  is  always 
tlie  case,  at  a  moment  it  was  least  apprehended !  The 
Palace  of  the  Louvre  was,  of  course,  as  in  more  modern 
revolutions, — the  first  place  assailed,  and  Philip,  like  his 
descendants  of  the  same  name  of  more  recent  date, — was 
besieged  and  exposed  to  every  insult  and  indignit}'.  But, 
unlike  the  Philip  of  the  Js'ineteenth  Century,  Philip  le 
Bel  sallied  out  from  his  stronghold  with  his  men-at-arms 
clad  in  steel,  at  his  back,  and  he  swept  the  streets  at 
once  of  the  poor  varlets  that  had  rebelled;  and,  hanged 
twenty-eight  of  tlie  first  he  could  catch,  as  high  as 
Haman,  at  the  city  gates,  as  a  terror  to  the  rest!  And 

*  The  history  of  the  TTebrews  in  France,  in  the  Fourteenth  Century,  is  full 
of  horrible  interest.  The  persecutious  to  wliicli  tliey  were  subjected  are 
almost  incredible. 


810     THE  POLITIC  PRINCE  AND  THE  POLITIC  PRELATE. 


SO  efficient  was  lliis  terror,  tliat  all  of  the  residue  slunk 
away  into  their  work-aliops,  and  betook  themselves  to 
their  toil,  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  never  after 
dared  whisper  a  syllable  about  extortion,  however  ex- 
tortionate it  might  prove ! 

Bat  Philip  was  a  politic  prince,  and  a  wise  one.  He 
knew  it  would  not  be  always  thus,  and  he  immediately 
assembled  the  States  General  to  relieve  the  grievances 
of  which  his  people  complained,  and  because  of  which 
they  had  revolted. 

The  same  course  he  pursued  in  the  provinces  as  in 
Paris.  Normandy  revolted  because  of  an  oppressive 
tax.  lie  quelled  the  revolt,  and  hung  up  a  dozen  or 
two  of  the  I'ebels,  and  then — repealed  the  tax  ! 

As  for  the  Templar- Knights,  whatever  Philip's  motive 
for  their  unjust  and  iniquitous  persecution, — whether 
avarice,— apprehension,  or  revenge, — he  certainly  had 
done  all  in  his  power  to  make  his  people  believe  them 
guilty  of  all  the  crimes  of  which  they  were  accused  :  and, 
quite  as  certainly,  he  had,  to  a  deplorable  extent,  been 
successful. 

The  death  of  thirty-six  Templars  on  the  rack,  in  the 
dungeons  of  Paris,  afiected  the  citizens  but  little.  That 
scene  they  had  not  witnessed.  But  they  had  witnessed 
the  execution  of  fifty-nine  Templars,  at  the  stake,  in  the 
field  of  St.  Antoine,  and  they  had  murmured.  And  now 
Philip  was  informed  that  murmurs  loud  and  deep  had. 
been  heard  at  the  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame,  during  the 
examination  of  Jacques  de  Molai,  by  the  Papal  Com- 
mission.   It  was  plain  the  populace  sympathized  with 


THE  POLITIC  PRIXCE  AXD  THE  POLITIC  PEELATE.  311 


tliat  cliiYalric  old  Avarrior.  Like  themselves,  lie  ^y^.s 
unlearned  in  laws  and  unskilled  in  letters :  and,  from 
their  very  hearts,  notwithstanding  all  their  prejudices, 
the_v  longed  to  see  him  on  his  wardiorse, — as  he  him- 
self prayed,  with  his  mail  on  his  majestic  form,  and 
his  dreadful  falchion  in  his  hand,  mowing  down  all 
assailants,  right  or  wrong.        ,  - 

What  Avas  Philip  to  do?  Eesign  his  purpose  he 
would  not, — pursue  it  just  then  he  dared  not.  He 
resolved  to  temporize.  The  Papal  Commission  met  the 
next  day  and  adjourned  for  five  whole  months. 

On  that  same  day  issued  from  the  Palace  of  the  Tern* 
pie  letters-patent  to  the  Templars,  throughout  all  France, 
■who  desired  to  defend  their  order,  to  convene  at  Paris 
during  the  month  of  March  ensuing. 

In  accordance  with  this  summons,  large  numbers  of 
the  knights,  who  had  been  imprisoned  in  the  provinces, 
repaired  to  Paris;  and,  on  Monday,  April  11th,  1310, 
nine  hundred  of  the  Temphirs  being  assembled,  they 
selected  seventy-five  to  superintend  their  defense,  at  the 
head  of  whom  were  Eaynaud  of  Oideans  and  John  de 
Boulogne,  the  Attorne}^  General  of  the  order — the  Grand 
Master  not  being  suffered  to  bo  present o 
•  The  trial  now  formalh^  commenced  in  the  Cathedral 
Church  of  Notre  Dame,  in  the  presence  of  immense  mul- 
titudes of  spectators,  by  the  publication  of  the  commis- 
sion of  the  Sovereign  Pontiff,  under  which  the  council 
sat,  and  the  articles  of  inquiry,  on  Avhich  the  accused 
were  to  be  interrogated.  Examination  of  witnesses 
immediately  commenced,  and  up  to  the  evening  of  May 


312     THE  POLITIC  PRINCE  AND  THE  POLITIC  PRELATE. 

11th,  just  one  montli  from  tliat  commencement,  only 
fourteen  had  been  examined.  But  sufficient  had  trans- 
pired during  this  month  to  convince  tlie  accused  that, 
tVom  tliis  commission,  thej  could  expect  no  justice.  On 
the  morning^  of  the  12th,  therefore,  John  de  Bouloo^ne,  in 
tlie  name  and  behalf  of  the  order,  presented  a  memorial^ 
in  which  was  declared — That  the  charges  preferred 
against  the  oi'der  were  infamous,  detestable,  abomina- 
ble, and  horribly  false, — fabricated  by  apostates,  liars  and 
forgers,  who  were  avowedly  their  foes  ;  that  the  religion 
of  the  Temple  was  pure  and  unpolluted,  and  utterly 
exempt  from  all  the  abominations  with  which  it  had 
been  charged,  and  that  t\\ey  who  dared  maintain  the 
reverse  were  worse  than  heretics  and  infidels;  that  it 
could  not,  for  an  instant,  be  supposed  that  any  man 
Avould  ]-emain  connected  with  an  order,  which  ensured 
the  loss  of  his  soul,  and  that  order  was  composed  ot 
gentlemen  oF  the  most  illustrious  families  in  Europe, 
who  would,  surely,  never  have  continued  members,  or 
even  have  continued  silent, — had  they  known, .  seen, 
heard-oP,  or  suspected  the  infamous  abominations  with 
which  it  had  been  charged.  Finally,  the  bold,  and 
eloquent  Knight-Advocate  declared  that  he  and  his  fol. 
lowers  were  resolved  to  maintain  the  honor  of  their 
beloved  order  at  the  sacrifice  of  life  ; — that  they  appealed 
from  all  provincial  synods,  or  papal  commissions,  to  the 
Sovereign  Pontiff',*  and  demanded  liberty  to  attend  a 
General  Council,  to  the  end  that  they  might,  in  the 


*  Dupuy. 


THE  POLITIC  PEIXCE  .AND  THE  POLITIC  PRELATE.  313 


presence  of  the  Holy  Eatlier  liimself,  tlieir  spiritual 
supreme,  maintaia  their  innocence. 

When  the  Attorney  General  of  the  order  had  con- 
cluded, Tonsard  de  Gi  si,  one  of  tlie  most  intrepid  and 
chivalric  men  of  that  or  of  anj^  age,  stepped  h)r\vard. 

" Tonsard  de  Gisi,  do  you  defend  this  order?"  asked 
tlie  Cardinah 

"I  do,"  sternly  rephed  De  Gisi.  "I  defend  it  in  mine 
own  name,  and  m  the  name  of  all  my  companions;— I 
defend  it  against  every  charge  adduced  by  its  enemies, 
and  1  demand  the  assistance  of  counsel  in  this  defense, 
and  a  sufficiency  from  the  coffers  of  the  Temple  to 
meet  the  expense,  which  that  defense  may  involve." 

"  Tonsard  de  Gisi,  have  yon  not  confessed  yourself 
guilty  of  infamous  crimes?"  demanded  the  Cardinal. 

"B}^  command  of  our  Grand  Master,  whom  next  to 
God  we  revere  and  obey,  I  have,  in  common  with  him 
and  with  all  the  best  and  purest  knights  of  our  order, 
confessed  myself  guilty  of  crimes, — ^impossible  crimes — - 
of  which  he,  and  thej^,  and  myself,  are  equally  and 
utterly  innocent.""^ 

The  Cardinal  started  at  this  bold  declaration  bat 
continued. 

"Were  you  put  to  the  torture?"  he  ashed. 

"Not  only  myself,  but  all  with  me  in  the  dungeons  of 
the  Louvre  were  subjected  to  every  torture  which  those 
fiends,  William  Imbert,  Inquisitor  General,  AVilliam  da 
Plessis,  a  monk  of  St.  Dominic,  and  llexian  de  Beziers, 


*  Americ  de  Villiers  had  confessed  on  the  rack  his  personal  presence 
and  participation  in  the  crucifixion  of  the  Saviour!  ^'—Villani. 


314     THE  POLITIC  PRINCE  AND  THE  POLITIC  PRELATE. 


Prior  of  Montfangon,— an  apostate  Templar,  who,  long 
ago,  bad  his  cloak  stripped  from  his  back  bj  our  Grand 
Master,  and  was  condemned  to  perpetual  imprisonment 
for  infamous  crimes, — all  the  tortures,  I  say,  which 
those  fiends  could  invent,  or  inflict.  Thirty-six  noble 
and  intrepid  knights  died  in  their  hands,  in  the  prisons 
of  Paris;  and  multitudes,  besides,  expired  on  tlicir  rack? 
in  all  of  the  provinces." 

The  peo|)le  looked  on  each  other  in  terror  and  disr 
may. 

"Eemove  the  prisoner,  guards,"  cried  De  Prato,  "and 
bring  forward  the  next." 

The  Cardinal  was  promptly  obeyed,  and  Bernard  de 
Yado,  another  distinguished  knight  of  the  order,  who 
had  recanted  his  confession,  was  produced.  The  tenor 
of  his  demands  and  declarations,  and  of  his  answers  to 
interrogatories  was  much  that  reheai'sed  in  the  examina- 
tion of  h:s  immediate  predecessor;  but,  when  the  queS' 
tion  was  asked — "Were  you  put  to  the  torture?" — he 
tlirurit  his  manacled  hand  with  difficulty  into  his  bosom^ 
and,  producing  a  handful  of  small  white  bones,  lie 
advanced  with  halting  steps  to  the  table,  and  laid  them 
rattling  before  the  conned.  > 

"Behold  the  proof,"  he  exclaimed,  with  flashing  eyes. 
The  flesh  of  my  feet  was  consumed  by  slow  fire,  and 
those  fragments  fell  off." 

At  this  fearful  sight  a  groan  arose  from  the  vast 
assemblage.  Even  the  Cardinals  were  shocked,  and 
they  quailed  before  the  fierce  glance  of  that  injured 
and  innocent  man;  while  murmurs  of  indignation  rari 


THE  POLITIC  PRIXCE  AXD  THE  POLITIC  PRELATE.  315 

througli  tlie  immense  multitudes  tliat  tlarouged  the 
Cathedral. 

"The  council  is  adjourned!"  cried  De  Prato  instantly, 
rising  from  his  chair. 

*  5}J  *  *  * 

Philip  le  Bel  was  a  politic  prince,  and  Cardinal  de 
Prato  was  a  no  less  politic  prelate ! 

20  1: 


816 


THE  COUNCIL  OF  VIENNE. 


CHAPTER  XXYIL 

THE  COUNCIL  OF  VIENNE. 

TO  detail  all  the  proceedings  of  tlie  Papal  Commis- 
sion appointed  to  examine  tlie  Templar  Knights, 
in  the  Cathedi'al  Church  at  Paris, — their  numbei'less 
adjournments  and  re- assemblings — tlieir  iniquitous  con- 
nivance witli  Phil'p  and  his  Ministers  for  the  de- 
stractioii  of  the  fated  and  hated  order,  and  the  active 
exertions  of  Blanche  of  Artois,  who,  throughout  the 
Avhole,  continued  the  very  soul  of  the  persecution;  as 
well  as  the  vacillation  and  yielding  of  the  Pontiff*  during 
a  period  of  several  months  comprising  all  the  winter  of 
1310,  and  a  portion  of  the  spring  of  the  following  year, 
would  prove  as  needless  as  it  would  be  tedious. 

Suffice  it  to  say  that,  between  the  date  of  the  first 
meeting  of  the  Commission,  on  the  7tli  day  of  August, 
1310,  until  its  final  adjournment,  on  tlie  26th  day  of 
May,  1311,  no  less  than  two  hundred  and  tAventy-one 
depositions,  r,s  toucliing  tlie  charges  against  the  order, 
had  been  filed,  of  which  one  hundred  and  fifty  were 
those  of  Templars.  The  large  proportion  of  the  latter 
asserted  their  innocence;  many  of  the  most  intrepid 
expired  in  their  dungeons,  from  the  effects  of  the  tor- 
tures to  which  tiiey  had  been  subjected  and  a  protracted 
confinement  in  a  poisonous  atmosphere ;  while  those 


THE  COUXCIL  OF  AIEXXE. 


817 


^tli  whom  it  Tvas  deemed  dangerons  to  heal,  chief 
among  ^\-iiom  Avere  Tonsard  de  G-isi  and  Bernard  de 
Yado. — were  not  suffered  to  appear  and  bear  witness  for 
tlieir  order  at  all. 

The  great  mass  of  testimony  against  the  order  was 
taken  from  the  lips  of  most  infamous  apostates,  whose 
Tile  characters,  apart  entirely  from  tlie  numberless  con- 
tradictions in  their  absurd  and  abominable  statements, 
should  have  divested  them  of  the  slightest  credence. 
Snch  now,  indeed  was  the  ordy  evidence,  inasmuch  as 
every  knight  at  all  recognized  as  a  companion  had  fnl-y 
recanted  all  confessions  of  crime,  and  asserted  his  in- 
nocence. Among  the  witnesses  whose  testimony  was 
deemed  of  Aveight  was  that  of  Raoul  de  Presle.  an  advo- 
cate of  the  King's  court,  whose  deposition  alone,  of  all 
those  taken,  is  still  of  record  and  extant ;  yet  that  sim- 
ply details  a  conversation  with  a  Templar,  who  told 
deponent  that  he  Vv-ould  sooner  lose  his  head  than 
reveal  the  strange  occurrences  which  transpired  in  the 
nocturnal  conclaves  of  the  order ;  and  that,  in  the  Grand 
Chapter,  there  was  one  secret  so  sacred,  that  were  any 
person,  not  a  member,  by  any  chance  to  become 
acrjuainted  therewith,  the  Templars  would  surely  put 
him  to  death  P 

At  the  close  of  the  Papal  Commission  two  copies  of 
the  entire  record  of  their  proceedings  embodying  all  the 
depositions  were  engTOssed  on  parchment,  one  of  which 
was  deposited  in  the  treasury  of  the  Cathedral  of  iDs'otre 
Dame,  the  other  forwarded  to  the  Sovereign  Pontiff.'^ 

*  Dupuy.  t  Verror ;  also  Fleiu'i. 


818 


THE  COUNCIL  OF  VIENNE. 


To  decide  jnstlj  on  tlie  fate  of  the  order  upon  the 
facts  set  forth  in  this  record, — absurd  and  contradictory 
as  thej  were, — Clement  found  impossible,  even  had  he 
been  so  disposed.  But  he  was  not  so  disposed  ;  he  was 
not  disposed,  indeed,  to  decide  the  question  at  all,  and 
he  had  no  idea  of  relieving  his  hated  coadjutator  from 
the  responsibility  he  had  voluntarily  assumed,  or  to  per- 
mit to  be  forced  upon  himself  a  decree  involving  the 
abolition  of  an  order,  the  persecution  of  which,  from 
the  very  first,  against  all  his  eflbrts,  with  extreme  reluc- 
tance, he  had  been  compelled,  by  Philip  of  France,  to 
countenance. 

In  this  painful  emergency,  Clement  consulted  his 
friend,  the  Cardinal  de  Prato,  who,  anticipating  this 
embarrassment  from  the  commencement,  had  taken  his 
measures  accordingly.  Turning  over  the  leaves  of  the 
record  of  the  Commission,  he  pointed  to  the  appeal  of 
John  de  Bou.logne  to  the  Pope,  and  his  demand,  in  the 
name  of  the  order,  for  a  General  Council  of  all  the  Pre- 
lates of  the  Church  at  which  his  Holiness  himself  should 
preside.  Upon  this  appeal  and  demand,  the  council  had 
purposely  taken  no  action.  It  was,  therefore,  an  open 
question,  and  both  appeal  and  demand  might  now  be 
granted,  thereby  relieving  the  Papal  See  of  the  responsi- 
bility so  much  dreaded,  yet  so  insiduously  and  pertina- 
ciously forced  upon  it  by  the  King  of  France. 

Gladly  and  gratefully  did  Clement  avail  himself  of  this 
suggestion,  and  immediately  issued  a  ball,  convening  a 
General  Council  at  Yienne,  in  Dauphiny,  near  Lyons,  on 
the  13th  day  of  October  next  ensuing  :  and,  inasmuch  as 


THE  COrXCIL  OF  VIEXXE. 


319 


the  Templars  liad  appealed  to  sucli  council  and  to  tlie 
Pope,  all  kuiglits  ^vho  designed  defending  tlieir  order 
were  solemnly  cited  then  and  there  to  be  present ;  while 
throngliout  all  Christendom  was  proclaimed  the  safe- 
guard of  the  Church  to  all  Templars  lying  in  conceal- 
ment, Avlio  might  desire  to  defend  their  order  on  that 
occasion, — assuring  them  of  entire  freedom  to  come,  to 
stav,  to  plead, — and  to  return,  w'ithoufc  let  or  hindrance, 
and  that  no  infringement  whatsocvtT  on  their  liberties, 
or  lives,  sliould  be  perpetrated  or  permitted. 

In  obedience  to  his  proclamation,  all  tue  prelates  of 
Europe,  with  the  Sovereign  Pontiff,  hastened  to  Yienne, 
as  well  as  immense  mimbers  of  the  nobility,  inferior 
clergy  and  people,  whom  the  interest  and  novelty  of  the 
occasion  drew  to  the  spot."^ 

On  the  morning  of  Friday,  the  13th  day  of  October, 
1311. — tlie  anniversary  of  the  arrest  of  the  Templars 
four  years  before — the  council  assembled  in  the  old 
Cathedral  Cliurch  of  Yienne,  and  proclamation  was  three 
times  made  by  the  heralds,  with  blast  of  trumpet,  that 
all  who  would  defend  the  Order  of  the  Templars  should 
then  and  there  appear. 

At  the  third  proclamation  and  sound  of  trumpet,  the 
multitudes  around  the  Cathedrahporch  parte ;1  their 
ranks,  and  nine  chevaliers  of  the  Temple,  in  the  full 
costume  and  armor  of  the  order,  galloped  up.  Dis- 
mounting, they  at  once  entered  the  church,  and,  remov- 

*  Not  less  than  three  huiKli'ed  Bishops  constituted  this  Council,  exclusive 
of  Cardinals.  The  Patriarchs  of  Alexandria  and  of  Antiocli  and  the  Abbes, 
and  Priors,  were,  also,  present.  Briand  de  Lagnieu  was  then  Archbishop  of 
Vienue. 


320 


THE  COUNCIL  OF  VIENNE. 


ing  tlieir  steel  caps  from  tlieir  lieads,  and  bending  one 
knee  before  that  venerable  and  imposing  assemblage  of 
all  tlie  Primates  of  the  Church,  with  the  Sovereign  Pon- 
tiff at  their  head,  arrayed  in  the  gorgeous  vestments  of 
the  Cathohc  priesthood  and  flashing  with  gems, — they 
announced  the  purpose  of  their  coming.  That  purpose 
was  to  defend  the  Order  of  the  Temple  against  any  and 
all  assailants,  in  any  manner  that  the  Council  might 
deem  fit;  and  they  came  under  the  safe  guard  of  the 
Church,  in  behalf  of  two  thousand  Templar- Knights,  who 
now,  for  a  period  of  four  years,  since  the  general  arrest 
of  October,  1307,  had  been  wanderers  among  the  cliffs 
and  caves  of  the  Cevennes,  in  the  mountain  province 
of  Lyonnais. 

The  effect  of  the  sudden  appearance  of  this  armed 
deputation  so  unexpected,  from  a  body  of  knights  so 
large,  and  of  whose  very  existence  the  foes  of  the  order 
Lad  never  dreamed,  may  be  imagined. 

Their  reception  by  the  Pope  was  respectful  but 
guarded.  He  suggested  to  them  the  propriety  of  laying 
aside  the:r  arms  and  nrmor,  and  presenting  themselves, 
at  a  fnture  clay,  of  which  they  would  receive  due  notifi- 
cation, in  their  white  robes  of  peace.  The  council,  hav- 
ing then  been  formally  opened,  adjourned,  with  the 
notice  that  their  next  session  would  be  devoted  to  a 
consideration  of  the  general  interests  of  the  Church. 

>K  *  ^  ^  * 

That  night  a  swift  cour-er  left  Yienne  for  Paris,  with 
a  dispatch  from  the  Pope  to  the  King,  detailing  the 


THE  COUXCIL  OF  VIEXXE. 


321 


events  of  the  day,  and  the  important  facts  It  had  dis- 
closed. 

The  object  of  Clement  in  deferring  the  cause  of  tlie 
Templars  for  consideration  of  the  general  interests  of  tlie 
Church  Avas,  doubtless,  to  gain  time  for  consultation  with 
Philip  on  the  new  phase  that  cause  had  assumed. 

But,  if  it  were  so,  vt-ry  little  occasion  had  he  to  felici- 
tate liimseh'  upon  the  aliernative  lie  had  selected;  for,  at 
the  very  next  session  of  the  council,  memorials  concern- 
ing the  vices  and  irregulariiies  of  the  clergy  were  pre- 
sented by  two  agefd  prelates  of  Franco,  which  struck 
horror  even  into  the  soul  of  the  Sovereign  Pontiff  him- 
self. These  memorials  set  forth,  that  the  grossest  igno- 
rance and  depravity  existed  among  all  orders  of  tlio 
clergy;  that  the  arch-deacons  inflicted  the  sentence  of 
excommunication  for  olfenses  the  most  trivial,  and  from 
motives  the  most  corrupt,  and  that  in  a  single  parish  not 
less  than  seven  hundred  were  under  that  awful  ban;  that 
the  canons  were  guilty  of  most  unpricstly  demeanor  in 
celebration  of  the  service,  that  monks  c[uitted  their 
cloisters  to  attend  fairs  and  mai'kets,  at  wdiich  they  were 
themselves  hucksters,  and  mingled  in  all  the  vices  of  the 
throng;  that  nuns  w^ore  silks  and  furs,  and  dressed  their 
hair  in  the  style  of  the  Court,  and  frequented  balls,  con- 
certs, tournaments  and  all  public  places,  and  walked  the 
streets  even  at  night:  that  the  Papal  See  itself  was  the 
seat  of  despotism,  cupidity  and  licentiousness^  where 
money  alone  could  ensuie  preferment,  Avhence  ignorant 
and  depraved  men  obtained  the  highest  stations,  and  dis- 
honored religion  by  the  irregularity  of  their  lives;  tha.t 


822 


THE  COUNCIL  OF  VIENNE. 


incontinence  was  so  universal  tliat  brothels  existed 
beside  the  very  walls  of  chnrclies,  and  beneath  even 
those  of  the  Papal  Palace,  and  finally— horror  of  hor- 
rors!— that  the  Holy  Father  himself  had  notoriously 
intrigued  with  a  lady  of  rank,  who  was  another's  wife 

The  consternation,— terror, — -amazement,— wrath  of 
the  Council  of  Prelates  may  be  imagined  upon  the  pre- 
sentation and  reading  of  charges  like  these.  Even  those 
against  the  persecuted  Templars  could  with  these  main- 
tain favorable  comparison.  To  arrest  the  reading  of  the 
memorials  when  the  clerks  had  once  commenced  was,  of 
course,  impossible,  even  had  his  Holiness  so  desired, 
Avhich  he  did  not,  until  the  last  terrible  sentence  had  left 
their  lips.  He  then  instantly  arose  and  adjourned  the 
council ;  and,  when  it  was  again  convened,  which  was 
not  until  the  11th  of  November,  Clement  was  glad  to 
avail  himself  of  the  exciting  cause  of  the  Templars,  or 
any  other  cause,  to  engross  the  minds  of  the  council,  and 
divert  attention  from  the  late  disgraceful  developments. 
He  was  willing  to  rush  upon  any  Charybdis,  however 
threatening,  to  escape  the  Scylla  upon  whose  rocks  he 
was  so  near  being  wrecked.  Bat  the  purpose  of  his 
delay  had  been  accomplished, — he  had  received  letters 
f]"om  Philip  of  France. 

The  first  step  in  the  consideration  of  the  cause  of  the 
Templars  was  the  reading  of  the  entire  record  of  the 
proceedings  of  the  Papal  Commission  at  Par's.  This 

*  Tins  is  of  record.   Those  who  douht  can  consult  Flenry's  Ecclesiastical" 
History,  in  which  the  Memorials  are  set  forth  at  length; or, a  quoratioii  theie- 
froin  ill  Gifford's  France.   The  Countess  of  Perigord,  daughter  to  the  Count  of 
Foix,  a  lady  of  high  rank  and  exquisite  fascinations,  is  said  to  have  enslaved 
Clement. 


THE  COUNCIL  OF  YIEXXE. 


823 


having  been  completed,  the  Pope  proposed  indi  viduallj^, 
to  the  council,  consisting  of  more  than  three  hundred 
mitred  priests  from  all  the  nations  of  Europe,  the  ques- 
tion— "  Whether  an  order  charged  with  such  enormous 
crimes,  sustained  hy  the  testimony  of  two  thousand 
witnesses,  should  not  cease  to  exist?"*  And,  to  this 
interrogator}^,  each  one  of  the  prelates,  and  each  one  of 
the  doctors  of  law,  of  all  that  vast  council,  replied  that, 
previous  to  a  decree  which  abolished  a  most  illustrious 
order,  established  by  pious  men,  confirmed  by  the  Papal 
See  and  a  General  Council,  and  which,  for  two  hundred 
years,  had  been  tlic  champion  of  the  Church,  it  was 
demanded  by  justice  and  religion  that  the  chiefs  of  the 
Templars  should  be  heard  in  its  defence, — each  one  of 
that  vast  assemblage  of  pious  and  learned  men  said  this, 
— each  prelate  of  France,  and  Italy,  and  Spain,  and  Grer- 
manj",  and  Denmark,  and  England,  and  Scotland,  and 
Ireland, — each  one,  saA'c  only  a  single  bishop  from  Ital}^; 
and  from  France  the  Archbishops  of  Eouen,  and  Eheims, 
and  Sens, — the  last  named  being  Philip  de  J^Iarigni,  the 
brother  of  Enguerrand  de  Marigni,  avIio  had  received 
his  elevation  to  a  prelacy  from  the  King  expressly  to 
persecute  the  Temple,  and  Avho  had  committed  fiftj'-nine 
of  the  fated  order  to  the  flames  in  the  field  of  St. 
Antoine  as  already  stated. 

By  these  four  men  it  was  contended  that  ample  oppor- 
tunity had  already  been  afforded  the  Templars  for  their 
defence,  and  no  new  fact  could  be  elicited  by  the  most 
protracted  examination. 

*  Life  of  Clement  V. 


824 


THE  COUNCIL  OF  VIENNE. 


The  next  question  proposed  by  the  Pope  to  the  coun- 
cil was  this — "Shall  the  Deputies  of  the  Templars  who 
have  presented  themselves  be  heard?"  The  decision  was 
similar  to  the  former,  with  the  same  number  of  dissent- 
ing votes, — "They  shall!" 

Instantly  upon  this  decision,  Clement  declared  the 
session  closed  ;  and  the  council  adjourned  until  the  third 
clay  of  April,  1312 ;  and  that  same  night,  by  his  order, 
the  deputation  of  the  Templars,  in  defiance  of  every  prin- 
ciple of  faith,  humanity  and  justice,  were  seized,  loaded 
with  chains  and  thrown  into  prison, — a  more  atrocious 
and  unheard-of  act  of  perfidy  than  which  the  annals  of 
history  have  no  record,  and  which,  to  the  honor  of  the 
Council  of  Yiennc,  was,  by  the  pious  prelates  wdio  com- 
posed it,  most  loudl^r,  j^^stly  and  indignantly  denounced! 

But  Clement  Fifth  had  received  letters  of  advice  from 
"his  clear  son,  the  King  of  France! "  And  on  the  22nd 
day  of  February,  suddenly,  without  prior  announcement, 
appeared  at  Yienne,  Philip  le  Bel^  accompanied  by  his 
brother,  the  Count  of  Yalois,  his  sons,  the  King  of 
Navarre,  tlie  Counts  of  March e  and  Poitiers,  with  all 
liis  Ministry,  Clergy,  and  Court  and  a  strong  body  of 
troops.  And  one  of  this  splendid  suite  was  Blanche  of 
Artois. 

One  month,  from  the  date  of  that  sudden  arrival,  being 
Good  Friday,  Clement  assembled  a  select  number  of  pre- 
lates in  secret  aonsistory,  and  there,  in  the  plentitude  of 
Papal  power,  which  he  declared  should  supply  all  defects 
of  form,  he  pronounced  a  decree  of  abolition  against  the 
Order  of  the  Temple. 


THE  CuUXcLL  Or  VIENXE. 


825 


On  tlie  Brd  of  April,  pursuant  to  ndjouriiraent,  tiie 
crnincil  sat.  On  the  riglit  liand  of  CJement  appeared 
Philip  of  France. — on  his  left  Charles  uf  Valois, — ^^bel'ore 
him  the  King  of  Xavarre  aiid  the  Counts  of  Marehe  and 
Poitiers.  Avith  the  who'e  French  Court.  Clergv  and  !Min- 
istrv.  and  all  around  a  powerful  array  of  ro\-al  troops. 

Clement  then  rose  and  read  the  decree  of  annulment 
-with  a  lirm  voice,  and  thus  concluded: 

AVe  do.  tlierefore.  by  virtue  .of  Apostolic  power  to 
us,  as  God's  vicegerent,  entrusted,  pronounce  tlie  Order 
of  Templar  Knights  provisionally  suppressed  and  abol- 
ished.^ reserving  to  the  IIolv  See,  and  to  the  Cliurch  of 
Pome,  the  ultimate  disposal  of  the  persons  and  posses- 
sions of  its  members.  Amen  I  And  this  council  is 
dissolved."' 

And  the  council  v:as  dissolved : .  and,  vithont  a  vord 
or  sign,  in  ominous  silence,  each  man  went  his  Avay  I 

*Tlie  Order  of  the  Tein]ilars  was  annulled,  iSl  years  after  its  confirmation  by 
the  Council  ol  Tioyes,  in  lUS. 


826 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  PARIS. 


CHAPTER  XXYIIL 

THE  PEOPLE  OF  PARIS. 


ERTEAND  de  Gotli,  Pope  Clement  Fifth,  was  a 
'    weak  man. 


Philip  le  Bel^  fourth  sovereign  of  that  name  in  France, 
was  not  a  weak  man. 
Both  were  bad  men. 

But  the  strong  man  had  obtained,  by  means  of  the 
weak  one,  as  is  ever  the  case,  in  the  long  run,  all  that  he 
originally  designed ;  while  the  weak  man  had,  in  reality, 
accomplished  none  of  his  purposes,  nor  prevented  the 
accomplishment  of  any  of  those  of  his  rival,  however 
much  they  had  clashed  with  his  own,  or  however 
strongly  he  had  vowed,  or  desperately  striven  against 
them. 

Philip  of  France  had  sworn  the  abolition  of  the  hated 
Order  of  the  Red-Cross  Knights.    His  oath  was  fulfilled. 

Clement  Fifth  had  decreed, — had  been  forced  to 
decree, — the  abolition  of  tliis  order,  but  he  had  done  it 
with  the  salvo  that  witli  himself  should  rest  the  ulti- 
mate disposal  of  the  persons  and  possessions  of  its  mem- 
bers. But  the  persons  of  four  of  its  Grand  Ofificejs  were 
in  the  dungeons  of  Philip,  and  all  of  their  immense 
estates  in  France  were  in  his  hands.  And  thus  was  it 
to  tlie  end.  "Philip  declined,"  says  history,  "to  part 
with  the  Temple  eflects,  until  he  should  have  jeim- 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  PARTS, 


827 


bursed  liimself  for  the  vast  expciidltuvG  Le  had  incurred 
in  suppressing  the  order;''  and  that  period  never  came! 
Of  course,  it  never  came  I 

In  Spain  and  Aragon,  the  Templar  estates  were  given 
the  order  of  Oar  Lady  of  Montesa,  founded  in  1817,  and 
were  appropriated  chiefly  to  the  extirpation  of  the 
Moors,  who  stili  held  Granada.  In  Castile,  tliey  became 
a  royal  appanage.  In  Portugal,  good  King  Denis  left 
the  Templars  in  quiet  possession  under  their  new  name, — - 
"  Knights  of  Christ.'*  In  Sicily,  Charles  tLe  Second 
grasped  the  real  estate,  and  resigned  tlie  personal  property 
of  the  victims  to  his  Holiness.  In  German^",  the  Teu- 
tonic Knights  sh fired  the  spoils  of  tbeir  persecuted 
brothers  with  tlie  Knights  of  the  Hospital.  In  England, 
alone,  was  the  final  decree  of  Clement  at  all  observed, 
and  tlie  revenues  of  the  martyred  Templars  secured  to 
the  White-Cross  Knights, — or  the  Knights  of  Rhodes^ 

they  now  were  called  ;  for,  on  the  15tli  day  of  August, 
1310,  while  the  unhappy  Grand  Master  of  the  Templars 
was  before  the  Papal  Commiasion  at  Paris,  the  more  for- 
tunate Fnlk  de  Villaret,  Grand  Master  of  the  Hospita- 
lers, with  his  war-galleys  was  capturing  the  Island  of 
Eh  odes 

It  is  a  pleasant  reflection,  after  all,  then,  one  which 
may  be  safely  indulged,  that  Clement  never  actually 

*  The  Knights  of  the  Hospital,  or  the  White-cross  Knights,  in  1310  took  the 
title  Knights  of  lUiodes  ;  andsuhsequentlv,  wiien  the  Island  of  Malta  became 
the  seat  of  the  order Knights  of  Malta.  When  the  estates  of  the  Templars  were 
given  to  the  Hospitalers,  one  order  seems  to  liave  become  merged  into  the 
otlier  ;  and  the  white  mantle  and  red-cross  became  a  black  mantle  niid  white- 
cross.  At  the  i>resent  day,  the  degrees  of  Templar  Knight  and  Kniglitof 
Malta  are  conferred  in  succession,  and  at  the  same  time.  The  Tenipiar  cos- 
tume is  lost,  but  tlie  name  remains,  aM  the  degree  takes  precedence  of  its 
ancient  rival  and  conqueror. 


328 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  PAEIS. 


enjoyed  the  bribe  for  wlncli  be  Lad  sold  bis  infemous 
decree;  and  tbat  tbe  Knights  of  tbe  White- Cross  pro- 
fited comparatively  bat  little  by  the  unjust  destruction  of 
their  rival  brothers  of  the  Eed,  although  immense  sums 
of  money  and  vast  estates  once  belonging  to  the  Temple 
fell  into  their  hands.  In  1316,  the  Bishop  of  Limisso,  in 
Cyprus,  transferred  to  tbe  Hospitalers,  by  order  of  the 
Pope,  26,000  bezants  of  coined  gold,  found  in  the  Pre- 
ceptor}^, and  silver  plate  to  tbe  value  of  1,500  marks, — 
all  of  which  enormous  wealth  must  have  accumulated 
within  a  period  of  ten  years ;  for,  in  1307,  as  we  have 
seen,  De  Mo^ai,  by  order  of  Clement,  had  borne  all  the 
treasure  of  the  order  to  Paris. 

And  Blanche  of  Artois, — she  had,  indeed,  exulted  at 
the  abolition  of  the  hated  order;  bat,  Jacques  de  Molai 
yet  lived,  and  her  vengeance  was  but  half- appeased. 
The  pale  shade  of  her  beloved  Adrian  still  pursued  ber, 
go  she  wliitbcr  sbc  might.  The  vengeance  of  the  King 
"was  satiated  by  the  abolition  of  an  order  wbicli  he  abbo- 
red ; — the  avarice  of  the  Pope  was  satisfied  by  revenues 
and  estates  wbich  he  thought  already  in  his  grasp,  and 
each  and  both  were  now  most  anxious  to  justify  in  tbe 
eyes  of  indignant  Christendom  the  persecution  they  bad 
so  long  and  so  implacably  pursued. 

Tbe  fate  of  the  Grand  Officers  of  the  abolished  order 
was  reserved  to  the  Papal  See;  and  Clement  and  Philip 
agreed  in  the  resolution  tbat,  provided  those  men  adhered 
to  the  confession  extorted  at  Cbinon,  and  thus  justified  all 
their  own  acts  of  persecution  before  the  indignant  na- 
tions, that  their  punishment  should  be  commuted  froni 


THE  PEOFLE  OF  PARIS 


829 


the  stake  to  perpetual  imprisonment.  But  tLe  rigor  of 
tliis  irnprisonm.ent  was  now  grea+ly  mollified.  The 
accused  Avere  no  longer  immurccl  in  the  dunyerjns  of  the 
Temple,  but  confined  in  its  Toicers  ]  and  not  onl^  vrere 
they  permitted  to  share  each  other  s  captivity,  but  to 
receive  the  visits  of  distinguished  knights  of  their  abol- 
ished order  from  distant  cities.  Among  their  visitors 
was  the  chieT  of  the  Templars  at  Cyprus, — John  Mark 
Amienius — who.  for  a  month,  shared  their  imprisonment. 

The  object  of  this  decided  amelioration  was  plain, 
Tne  order  being  now  abolished,  it  was  indispensable  to 
Philip  that  he  might  remove  the  odium  he  had  incurred 
by  its  persecution,  that  the  Grand  Officers  should  confess 
its -enormities.  Tids  done,  he  cared  not  for  their  fate. — 
nay.  he  would,  gladly  even,  commute  a  sentence  of  death, 
at  the  stake  to  mild  imprisonment,  if  not  to  complete 
and  speedy  enlargement.  For  his  soul,  he  began  to  feel, 
was  charged  with  too  much  of  their  blood  already  ! 

But  with  Blanche  of  Artois  it  was  not  so.  All  that  was 
gentie. — all  that  was  amiable, — all  that  vras  mild  and  lov- 
ing in  her  bosom,  was  extinct.  Hate — revenge — reigned 
there  and  ruled  supreme.  Oh,  how  different  was  she  now 
from  that  fair — young — lovelv — tender  being,  which  but  a 
few  3'ears  ago  Ave  first  saw  her!  Iler  verv  nature  seemed 
changed.  She  was  no  more  Avhat  she  had  been.  Then, 
she  w^as  an  angel  of  gentleness  and  love. — now,  alas  1 
she  Avas  a  furj'  of  vengeance  and  hate  I  To  her  insati- 
ate soul  it  Avas  not  enough  that  the  hated  Order  of  the 
Temple  Avas  no  more ;  the  still  more  hated  Grand  Mas- 
ter of  the  Temple  must  share  its  fate. 


330 


THE  PEOPLE  Of  PARIS. 


^  jfc  4^ 

On  the  morning  of  Monday,  the  18th  day  of  March, 
1314,  there  stood  in  the  Place  du  Parvis,  in  front  of  the 
porch  of  the  Cathedral  Church  of  Notre  Dame  of  Paris,  a 
lofty  seaflbld.  In  front  was  erected  a  huge  pile  of  fag- 
ots around  a  stake,  and,  in  all  the  court,  swarmed  the 
people  of  Paris.  At  one  extremity  of  the  scahbld  sat 
Philip  de  Marigni,  Archbishop  of  Sens,  while,  on  his 
right  hand  and  his  left,  sat  a  Cardinal  Legate  of  the 
Sovereign  Pontiff,  with  the  Bishop  of  Alba,  deputed  to 
assist  at  the  ceremony  now  to  proceed. 

Before  this  council  and  this  assemblage,  after  some 
delay,  were  brought, — surrounded  by  a  powerful  force, 
the  Grand  Master  of  the  Temple  and  the  three  Grand 
Priors,  who,  for  a  p-eriod  of  six  years,  had  been  immured 
in  the  glungeons  of  Paris.  The  confessions  of  Chinon 
were  then  read  by  the  Bishop  of  Alba,  and  a  long  and 
elaborate  sermon  was  delivered  to  the  multitude,  in  which 
the  enormities  there  admitted  were  dwelt  on  with  pecu- 
liar force.  In  concliision,  the  Legate  called  upon  the 
Grand  Officers  there  to  renew  those  confessions  and  be 
pardoned,  or  to  refuse: — and  before  them  stood  the 
stake  fully  prepared  for  the  sacrifice. 

Intimidated  by  the  menaces  of  the  Legate,  the  Grand 
Priors  of  Prance  and  Acquitaine  complied  with  the 
concition  proposed. 

But  not  so, — oh,  not  so,  was  it  with  that  noble  old 
man,  Jacques  de  Molai,  or  his  worthy  companion,  Guy, 
Prior  of  Normandy.  Resolutely  and  calmly  they  retained 
their  seats,  while  their  fellow-sufferers  renewed  their 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  PARIS, 


331 


confessions.  This  done,  and  tLe  two  Grand  Templars 
yet  remaining  motionless,  tlie  x\.rclib:sliop  of  Sens  cried 
ill  a  loud  voice  : 

'^Jacq^es  de  Molai,  in  the  name  of  the  Holy  Church, 
and  on  pain  of  your  immediate  execution,  at  yonder 
stake,  I  call  upon  you,  be'fjre  this  cloud  of  witnesses,  to 
renew  your  recanted  confession  at  Chinon, — I  call  on 
you  to  proclaim  your  shame  and  crime,  and  thereby  to 
merit  the  clemency  of  your  royal  master  :  and  thereby  to 
prove,  also,  beyond  a  doubt,  to  all  the  world,  the  justice 
of  your  punishment  and  that  of  your  iniquitous  fi^a- 
ternity ! 

Firmly  and  calmly,  De  M(")lai  rose  from  his  seat,  and 
slightly  bowing  to  the  Archbishop  and  tlie  Legates,  as 
he  passed  them,  he  advanced,  with  loftv  bearing  and 
majtistic  step,  to  the  edge  of  the  platform. 

Every  eye  in  that  vast  assemblage  was  fixed  with 
awe,  yet  compassion,  on  that  veneral^le  man;  and.  in 
hushed  and  breathless  silence  thc}^  listened  for  tlie  llrst 
syllables  of  that  confession  of  guilt  which  was  to  save 
him  from  the  awful  doom  now  full  behn^e  him:  and  they 
thought  that  never— never  had  they  looked  upon  a  more 
grand  and  imposing  form. 

Eaising  his  manacled  arms,  and  spreading  out  his 
hands  over  the  heads  of  that  countless  multitude,  as 
if  bestowing  upon  them  his  patriarchal  benediction,  for 
some  moments  he  stood  silent. 

'■People  of  France! — citizens  of  Paris'."'  he,  at 
length,  exclaimed,  in  those  deep  and  thnnder-tones, 
which  had  so  often  been  heard  above  the  horn  and  the 
21 


832 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  PARIS. 


cymbal — tlie  atabal  and  the  trumpet, — above  all  the 
clash  of  barbaric  mnsic,  and  the  clang  of  steel,  and  the 
ronr  of  Paynim  battle, — "People  of  France! — citizens 
of  Paris! — hear  me,  and  nnderstaDd  I  Tbrongh  you,  to 
all  Europe, — to  all  Christendom, — to  all  the  world, — to 
nnborn  ages,  I  speak!  Hear- and  record  m}^  Avords.'^  T 
am  commanded  to  confess  my  guilt  and  to  condemn  my 
order.  Most  humbly, — most  penitently, — with  sorrow 
and  with  shame, — in  the  presence  of  God  and  of  man, — • 
to  my  own  undying  ignominj^,  do  I  confess  that  I  have 
been  guilty  of  the  blackest  of  all  crimes  ! " 

The  old  man  paused.  Tlie  prelates  looked  at  each 
other  with  evident  satisfaction,  and  the  great  mass  of  the 
people  seemed,. — also,  gratified, — they  seemed  relieved 
fi-om  the  apprehension  of  the  fcarfid  doom  which 
impended  over  the  Templar's  refusal  to  confess.  There 
were,  however,  some  few  who  turned  away  with  disap- 
pointment and  discontent.    They  had  not  expected  this. 

"Yes,  people  of  Paris,"  continued  the  Grand  Master, 
elevating  his  sonorous  voice,  so  as  to  be  heard  in  ti^e 
remotest  corner  of  that  spacious  square,  "  I  confess 
myself  gnilty  of  the  blackest  of  crimes,  by  my  confes- 
sion of  crime  in  the  Castle  of  Chinou  of  which  I  was 
never  guilt}^!" 

Had  a  thunderbolt  fallen  from  the  blue  sky  of  that 
wintrj'-  day  into  the  midst  of  that  vast  assemblage,  a 

*  And  tliey  did  record  his  words!  Tt  is  a  noticeable  fact  that  Vertot.  Vil- 
lani,  l)ui)uy,  Fleury,  and  all  other  liistoriaiis,  w  liether  Protestant  or  Cath(»lic, 
ascribe  tlie  same  sentiments  to  this  speech  of  De  INIolai,  and  almost  the  same 
words;  and,  now,  ap;reeably  to  liis  wish,  moretlian  tive  centuries  after  they 
were  uttered,  tliey  justify  liis  memory,  and  the  character  of  an  order  vviiicli 
l.iore  than  his  life  he  loved  I 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  PARIS. 


833 


greater  slicck  cOuld  hardly  have  been  experienced.  The 
prelates  seemed  stunned  Avitli  amazement. 

"The  blackest  of  crimes!"'  reiterated  the  Templar; 
"because,  by  that  confession  of  my  own  ignominy,  I, 
Grand  Master  of  the  Temple,  thereby  entailed  disgrace 
on  my  pnre,  and  holy,  and  most  beloved  order  I  God 
forgive  I  God  forgive  I  For,  oh, — it  was  to  save  that 
order,  and.  with  the  vain  hope  of  redeeming  my  perse- 
cuted sons  from  the  same  agonies  of  torture  I  then 
endured,  that  the  confession  of  guilt  was  made.  But 
noAV — now,"  lie  shouted  in  loud,  distinct,  yet  rapid  tones, 
— '"now — in  this  last  moment  of  my  life,  and  with  the 
full  knowledge  that  this  avowal  consigns  my  body  to 
immediate  flames, — to  all  Paris,  to  all  Christendom,  to 
all  the  world  of  man  and  before  my  God  do  I  pronounce 
that  confession  utterly  and  absolutely  false  I  I  pro- 
nounce all  the  charges  against  the  pure  and  hallowed 
Order  of  the  Temple  base,  and  monstrous  and  infamous 
calumnies  I  I  pronounce  Philip  of  France  a  traitor  to 
his  people  and  his  race,  and  Clement  of  Eome  a  traitor 
to  his  God  1 " 

"Treason!  treason!''  shouted  the  Archbishop  of 
Sens,  leaping  to  h'.s  feet. 

"Brave  De  Molai ! — brave  De  Zuolai!"'  screamed  the 
people. 

"  Heresy  ! —heresy  1  ^'  —  cried  the  Bishop  of  Alba. 
"Seize  him — stop  his  mouth!"' 

The  guards  sprang  forward  to  obey,  but  before  they 
could  reach  the  Templar,  his  venerable  companion.  Guv, 
Prior  of  Xormandy,  his  gray  hair  streaming  to  the 


834 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  PAEIS. 


winter  blast  and  tlie  cliains  upon  his  raised  arms  rat- 
tling as  lie  moved,  rushed  forward  and  exclaiming  :  "  It 
is  God's  truth  1 — It  is  God's  truth  !  " — threw  himself  into 
the  arms  of  his  beloved  chief. 

Supporting  his  aged  companion  on  one  arm  while  the 
other  was  still  extended  over  the  vast  multitude,  the 
lion- tones  of  that  brave  old  Grand  Master  still  continued 
to  be  heard,  nntil  both  victims,  locked  in  each  other's 
manacled  embrace,  were  dragged  down  from  the  scaffold 
and  hurried  into  the  church. 

Oh,  it  was  a  sublime  spectacle, — these  aged  and  illus- 
trious Templars,  thus,  with  their  latest  breath,  pro- 
claiming the  purity  of  their  order,  and,  for  that  avowal, 
resigning  their  lives! 

But  the  prelates  lied  when  they  menaced  their  victims 
with  instant  conflao-ration  at  the  stake  before  them,  if 
thev  refused  to  confess.  Thcj  had  never  designed  it; 
and,  if  thej  had,  they  w^ould  have  dared  not  attempt  it, 
amid  the  tempest  of  indignation  which  now  pervaded 
the  vast  concourse  around. 

The  prelates  retired  precipitately  into  the  Cathedral 
as  a  retreat  they  were  glad  to  gain. 

The  populace,  thinking  the  Templar  chiefs  in  the 
sanctuary,  and  for  the  present,  at  least,  safe  from  violence, 
slowly  dispersed  to  their  homes ;  and,  in  a  few  hours,  the 
angry  surges  of  popular  rage  had  ceased  to  welter,  and 
roar,  and  mutter,  and  dash,  around  that  dark  old  pile. 
The  aged  prisoners  were  then  committed  to  the  Provost 
of  Paris,  who,  conducting  them  through  secret  passages, 
conveyed  them  across  the  Seine  to  the  dungeons  of  the 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  PAPJS. 


335 


Petit  Cliatelet,  Avliile  tlie  friglitened  priests  escaped  by 
the  same  route,  and,  seeking  tlie  lower  extremity  of  tlie 
Isle  of  the  Cite^  crossed  tlie  otber  arm  of  the  Seine  to 
the  palace. 

From  the  summit  of  the  tall  central  tower  of  the 
Louv]'e,  Blanche  of  Artois,  overlooking  the  inter veiiiiig 
roofs,  had  distinctly  beheld  all  that  had  transpired  in  the 
Place  dii  Par  vis  of  Xotre  Dame.  She  had  watched  the 
vast  crowd,  which,  from  the  dawn  of  day,  had  poured  in 
one  imbroken  stream  over  the  two  brld^'es  connectino- 
the  Cite  Avitli  the  Universite  and  the  Yille^  and  which, 
disgorging  itself  through  the  various  narrow  streets  and 
thoroughfares  into  the  A'ast  quadrangle,  and  up  to  the 
scaffold  in  front  of  the  grand  entrance  of  the  Cathedral, 
and  beneath  the  shadow  of  its  ponderous  and  beetling 
towers,  rushed  and  roared  around  the  temporarj^  struc- 
ture. She  had  beheld,  at  an  early  hour,  the  pr'estly  Tri- 
umvirate ascend  the  platform  in  their  ecclesiastical  robes, 
girt  by  the  dark  cloud  of  their  monkish  servitors,  and 
immediately  followed  by  the  fettered  Templars,  sur- 
rounded by  glitteiing  spears.  The  ceremonies  which 
succeeded,  she  had,  also,  witnessed,  and  well  compre- 
hended their  significance,  although,  of  course,  not  a  svl- 
lable,  at  that  distance,  could  reach  her  ear.  TTitli 
intense  solicitude  she  continued  to  gaze,  that  she  might 
Avitness  the  result,  until,  at  length,  the  thunder-tones 
of  the  people  shouting,  ''Brave  De  Molai ! — brave  De 
Molai!"  sweeping  on  the  blast  told  her  that  her  fears 
were  vain, — that  her  hopes — her  confident  expectations 
were  fulfilled  I 


336 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  PARIS. 


"He  will  perish!"  slie  muttered,  while  a  fiend-hke 
exultation  gleamed  in  her  dark  ej-e.  "  Beloved  Adrian, 
thj  shade  will,  at  last,  be  avenged !  " 

She  was  turning  to  descend,  thiuking  all  was  over, 
when  the  wild  and  hurried  scenes  that  succeeded  caught 
her  glance  and  arrested  her  attention. 

"Ha!  the  people!"  she  exclaimed.  "They  declare 
for  the  Templars!  It  is  time  then  for  to  act  I  No 
more  delays ! " 

And,  hurrying  down,  she  found  Philip  with  his  Min- 
isters, De  Marigni,  De  Nogaret,  De  Cliatilloo,  and  the 
Inquisitor  already  in  close  council  on  the  events  of 
which  they  had  just  been  informed.  They  were  shortly 
joined  by  the  Archbishop  and  the  Legates,  in  a  state  of 
excessive  alarm,  which  they  did  not  fail  to  communicate 
to  their  associates. 

Philip  of  Prance  feared  not  foreign  foes.  His  eques- 
trian statue  in  Notre  Dame  commemorated  their  inva- 
riable defeat.  He  feared  not  the  Sovereign  Pontiff.  Of 
this  he  had  given  abundant  proof  in  three  successive 
pontificates.  He  feared  not — he  had  never  feared  his 
own  nobility  or  clergy.  He  feared  not  now  the  once 
mighty  power  of  the  Temple.  He  seemed  hardly  to  fenr 
God  Himself;  and  he  surely  disregarded  man.  Yet, 
there  was  one  thiiig^ — an  animate, — active, — powerful, 
• — passionate, — migovernable, — hydra-headed  thing,  that 
lie  did  fear.    That  thing  was — the  people  ! 

Philip  the  Fourth  of  France  was  a  brave  and  wise 
prince  ;  and  when  all  the  details  of  the  scene  which  that 
evening  had  transpired  in  the  Parvis  of  Notre  Dame 


1 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  PARIS. 


337 


were  laid  before  liira,  be  paused  and  reflected,  aud  asked 
his  counsellors  for  counsel. 

This  counsel  was  given,  and  by  almost  unanimous 
assent,  the  voice  of  De  Marigni,  who  still  bewailed  the 
loss  of  a  son  which  he  considered  as  one  more  wrong, 
and  the  deepest  from  the  hated  order,  alone  dissenting. 
This  counsel  was  the  immediate  annonucement  that  tlio 
penalty  of  the  contumacy  of  the  Templar  chiefs  shotdd 
be  perpetual  imprisonment.  The  certainty  that  the 
prisoners  were  not  to  be  consigned  to  the  flames,  it  was 
hoped,  would  allay  the  popular  excitement.  This  deci- 
sion was  strenuously  opposed  by  De  Marigni,  who  urged 
the  infliction  of  the  awful  alternative  with  which  the 
Templars  had  been  menaced  in  event  of  recusancy,  and 
he  was  still  speaking  when  the  door  of  the  council- 
chamber  opened,  and,  to  the  amazement  of  all,  Blanche 
of  Artois  entered. 

Pale  as  death, — her  long  black  hair  hanging  loosely 
around  her  face,  and  her  large  azure  eyes  filled  with  sig- 
nificant fire,  the  Countess  of  Marche,  unannounced  and 
uninvited,  entered  the  secret  council-chamber  of  tho 
King  of  France.  The  Minister  stopped  short  in  his 
harangue,  and  all  present  gazed  on  this  strange  appari- 
tion with  surprise. 

"You  are  astonished  at  th's  intrusion.  Sire,"  said 
Blanche,  bowing  low  to  the  King;  *'and  it  would,  indeed, 
be  an  astonishing — an  unheard-of  thing,  that  even  a 
princess  of  the  blood  sliould  obtrude  herself  upon  the 
private  councils  of  the  sovereign  of  France,  did  not 
extreme  emergency,  involving  his  dearest  interests, — • 


338 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  PARIS. 


perliaps  liis  crown,— perhaps  liis  life,— demand,  if  not 
warrant  it ! " 

"Ha!"  cried  Philip,  springing  to  his  feet. 

The  counsellors  looked  at  eacli  other  with  doubt  and 
dismay. 

"Go  on,  Blanclie,  go  on  I"  continued  the  King,  more 
calndy,  at  the  same  time  resuming  his  seat.  "  I  have 
always  deemed  you  my  wisest  counsellor.  The  event 
will  prove  me  right,  as  a  thousand  times  events  have 
proven.    Sit  beside  me  and  go  on ! " 

"With,  your  permission,  Sire,"  rejoined  the  Countess, 
*'I  will  proceed  witli  the  few  words  I  have  to  say,  and, 
with  your  permission,  will  remain  standing.  You  know, 
Sire,  your  counsellors  know,  all  Piiris  knows  the  events 
of  this  day,  and  especially  of  the  past  few  hours  in  the 
Parvis  of  Notre  Dame." 

"The  people  are  excited,  my  daughter,"  said  Philip, 
calmly.    "But  it  will  pass  away." 

"The  agitation  of  the  good  people  of  Paris,  Sire," 
rejoined  Blanche,  "and  tke  sympathy  they  manifest  in 
the  behalf  of  the  convicted  Templars  is  known  to  all: 
but  the  immediate  consequence  of  that  excitement  and 
sympathy, — and  tbe  ultimate  most  [probable  result, — if 
measures  are  not  at  once  adopted  to  prevent,  all  do  not 
know." 

"  Well,  Blanche,  go  on,"  said  the  King. 

"  There  are  many  Templars  in  Paris,  Sire,  who  have 
never  been  arrested,  or  even  suspected,"  continued  the 
Countess. 

"  So  I  have  always  feared,"  rejoined  Philip. 


THE  PEOPLE  Of  PARIS. 


339 


"These  men  have  this  day  been  active  among  the 
peo|)]e."' 

'■All,  is  it  so?     said  the  King. 

''I  have  just  received  positive  proof  of  what  I  advance, 
Sire,"  continued  the  Countess,  "  and,  to  declare  it,  I  have 
obtruded  upon  3^ our  privac}'." 

This  excitement  must  be  cj_uieted,"  rejoined  the 
King,  earnestly.    '"Pe  Marigni,  you  are  Avroiig."' 

"If  the  Templars  again  appear  in  pubhc,  they 
will  be  freed  by  a  revolt  of  the  people  I  "  exclaimed  the 
Countess. 

To-mori'ow  the  commntation  of  their  sentence  from 
the  stake  to  temporary  imprisonment  shall  be  proclaimed 
throughout  Paris,"  responded  the  King,  Avith  energy. 

."That  will  not  Sire,"'  calmly  replied  the  Conntes.^, 
repressing  with  difficulty  the  agitation  this  announce- 
ment inspii'ed. 

"Indeed,  Blanche!"  exclaimed  the  King,  with  some 
surprise.    "And  why  not  ?  " 

"Because,  to-morrow  the  Templars  will  not  be  in  your 
Majesty's  power, — will  not  bo  in  Paris,"  was  the  c^uiet 
response. 

"  Will  not  be  in  Paris  ?  "  cried  Philip. 

"  To-night,  the  Chatelet  will  be  stormed,  and  the  pris- 
oners released,  and  before  tlie  dawn  they  will  he  far  on 
their  flight,  with  tlieir  deliA'ereJ'S,  to  the  border,"  said 
Blanche. 

"You  are  sure  that  the  Chatelet  will  be  assailed  to- 
night, Blanche?  "  asked  the  King. 
"  I  am  sm-e,"  was  the  brief  answer. 


340 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  PARIS. 


"  Then  the  Chatelet  must  be  invested  with  troops 
without  delay,"  continued  Pliilip. 

"And  then  your  Majesty  will  again  be  in  colHsion 
with  your  people. — will  you  not  ? "  asked  Blanche. 
^'And  mauy  will  be  slain,  as  well  as  many  of  the  troops, 
and  months  may  elapse,  or  years  even,  before  quiet  is 
restored,  if  it  ever  is  !  " 

"  True, — most  true,"  was  the  moody  response.  "  It 
was  so  before.  And  all  because  of  two  old  dotards, 
who  will  not  adhere  to  a  confession  !  " 

"  That,  doubtless,  is  the  cause,"  replied  the  Countess, 
"  and  were  these  old  Templars  removed,  all  would  be 
well.  It  is  to  release  these  chiefs  that  their  knights 
secretly  plot  and  agitate.  And,  so  long  as  they  live,  and 
are  "imprisoned,  so  long  will  there  be  intrigues  and 
plots,  and  revolts  for  their  release.  Were  they  free  all 
this  would  cease." 

"No  doubt,  but  to  free  them  is  clearly  impossible. 
Besides,  their  power  is  st'.ll  vast.  Not  a  nation  in  Europe 
could,  probably,  even  now  withstand  the  united  assault 
of  these  cowled  warriors,  with  their  Grand  Officers  at 
their  head.  The  order  is  only  nominally  abolished  as 
3^et.    No — no — to  free  them  is  impossible  !" 

"  Were  they  dead^  the  result  Avould  be  the  same," 
coolly  rejoined  the  Countess.  "  The  agitation  would 
cease." 

"  Ila  !  dead  !  "  cried  the  King,  starting.  "  It  would  be 
so.  But  that,  too,  is  now  impossible  to  bring  to  pass, — ■ 
at  least  at  present." 

"The  alternative  presented  to  the  Templars  to-day  in 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  PARIS. 


341 


the  Parvis  of  JSTotre  Dame  was  this, — to  confess  or  to  be 
burned, — was  it  not  ?  "  asked  Blanche. 
The  prelates  bowed. 

"  Well, — two  of  these  men  did  not  confess  ;  and  now, 
if  they  be  not  burned,  the  royal  authority  and  that  of 
the  Sovereign  Pontifl'  will  fall  into  contempt, — will  it 
not  I" 

"  But,  if  they  are  burned,  there  will  be  a  revolt  of 
Paris ! "  cried  the  King,  with  evident  vexation.  "  Indeed, 
were  but  an  attempt  made  to-morrow  to  burn  these  men, 
they  would  be  released  by  the  people,  as  3'Ou  say." 

"  To-morrow,  doubtless,"  quietly  replied  Blanche  ;  "  or, 
a  w^eek,  or  a  month,  or  a  year  hence:  but  not — to- 
ni(jlit !  " 

"To-night!"  cried  Philip.  "Burn  the  Templars  to- 
night ?  " 

The  Councillors  exchanged  looks  of  astonishment. 

"  To-night,  or  never,"  was  the  calm  answer. 

"  But  the  people  will  release  them  !  " 

"  The  people  have  gone  home." 

"  They  will  re-assemble." 
-   "Yes,  around  the  Chatelet,  at  midnight." 

The  King  sprang  to  his  feet  and  paced  the  chamber  in 
great  perplexity. 

"Surely,"  he  exclaimed,  "the  people  would  at  once 
reassemble  were  there  an  attempt  to  carry  this  sentence 
into  execution,  especially  if  the  leaders  of  the  people 
are  on  the  "^vatch,  and  have  prepared  them  to  assail  the 
Chatelet  at  midnight!  " 

"The  people  would  hardly  gather  in  great  numbers 


B42 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  PARIS. 


an  hour  hence,  to  witness  an  execution,  quietly  con- 
ducted, and  of  which,  after  the  exciting  events  of  the 
day,  they  did  not  even  dream,"  said  Blanche  ;  "  and  if 
they  would,  they  could  not,  if  that  execution  took  place 
upon  tho  uninhabite'ii  island  of  the  Passeur  aux  vaches^ 
in  the  middle  of  the  Seine  ! " 

*■  Ha  !  "  ci'ied  the  King  with  joy.  "  Blanche  is  right, 
methinks  !  Blanche  is  right !  What  is  your  scheme, 
niy  daughter  ?  " 

*'  Briefly  this,  Sire  :  You  wish  France  free  of  the  Tem- 
plars. Yet  were  tho  Grand  Officers  free^  France  would  bo 
endangered.  Efforts  to  free  these  men  by  agitating  your 
people  will  not  cease  while  they  live.  Tliis  very  night 
such  an  effort  is  contemplated,  which  can  only  be 
quelled,  if  quelled  at  all  it  can  bo,  by  the  saci'ifice  of 
many  of  the  citizens  of  Paris,  and  th.o  agitation  of  all. 
If  not  quelled,  and  the  attempt  succeed,  tho  worst  con- 
sequences may  be  apprehended.  Tlio  doom  of  these 
men  by  the  solemn  declaration  of  this  day  is  death  ;  if 
it  be  not  executed,  it  will  bring  contempt  on  those  who 
declared  it.  If  an  attempt  is  made  to  execute  it  to- 
morrow, or  a  month,  or  a  year,  hence,  it  will  be  suc- 
cessfully resisted.  At  this  moment,  such  an  event  is 
not  apprehended,  and  there  can  bo  no  organization  to 
prevent  it." 

"  What  then  is  your  counsel,  Blanche  ? "  asked 
Philip. 

"This,  Sire:  One  hour  hence  it  will  be  dark.  Let 
the  two  Tem])lar  chiefs  who  are  sentenced  be  then 
secretly  taken  from  their  dungeons,  by  the  water-gate  of 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  PARIS. 


843 


tlie  Cluitelet,  and  in  boafs  be  transported  to  tlie  islet  of 
the  Seine.  Let  that  island  be  secretly  invested  with  a 
strong  guard.  Let  preparations  for  the  execution  be 
made  at  once.  At  the  stake  let  full  pai'don  and  liberty 
be  proclaimed  to  the  Templars,  if  they  will  confess. 
They  will  not  confess.  Their  sentence  will  be  executed. 
There  can  be  no  rescue.  The  royal  authority  wdll  be  sus- 
tained and  continue  to  be  respected.  Agitation  among 
the  people  will  cease.  The  Order  of  the  Templars  will 
then,  and  not  till  then,  be  truly  extinct.  And  you,  Sire, 
will  then,  and  not  till  then,  be  truly  King  of  France ! " 

"But,  will  not  survivors  of  the  order  seek  revenge  for 
the  execution  of  their  chief?"  asked  the  King. 

"And  if  they  did,  wliere  could  they  find  it?"  returned 
the  Countess.  "Agitation  of  your  own  people,  Sire,  is 
all  you  have  to  dread,  and  these  Templars,  once  dead, 
that  agitation  would  cease.  Besides,  the  agitators  seek 
the  release  of  their  chief, — not  a  fruitless,  and  barren, 
and  impossible  vengeance.  Were  he  free  and  their 
head,  their  vengeance  might  well  be  dreaded;  but  cut 
off  that  head,  and  the  monster  is  pow^erless  !" 

"Blanche — Blanche — you  arc  rioht!"  cried  the  Kinpr. 
"  Blanche  is  alw a \^s  right !  Gentlemen  and  prelates,  we 
have  decided.  The  Council  is  dissolved.  You,  Be  Cha» 
tillon,  Lord  Constable  of  France,  will  preside  over  tho 
execution  of  the  Master  of  the  Templars  and  the  Prioj 
of  JSTormandy,  on  the  isle  of  the  Seine,  west  of  the  Cite  iii 
one  hour  from  this  time.    The  Council  is  dismissed." 

The  Tower-clock  tolled  six.  Blanche  glided  from  the 
apartment.    Iler  purpose  was  accomplished. 


344 


THE  MARTYRDOM. 


CHAPTEE  XXIX. 

THE  MARTYRDOM. 

THE  SEINE,  as  it  flowed  througli  Paris,  in  tLe 
early  part  of  the  Fourteenth  Century,  embraced  six 
ishmds — three  above,  or  east  of  the  Cite^  and  two  west, 
or  below.  It  has  no\\^  but  two,  the  three  above  being 
united  into  one,  and  that  one  being  connected  with  the 
eastern  extremity  of  the  Cite  by  a  bridge  of  stone — both 
bridge  and  islands  being  covered  with  honses ;  while 
those  at  the  foot  of  the  Cite  have  been  united  to  its 
western  extremity  and  are  also  covered  with  houses. 

But  in  1314  tlie  only  one  of  the  six  islands — or  more 
properly  of  the  three  islands  and  three  islets — at  all 
inhabited  was  L^lle  de  la  Cite]  which  then  constituted 
perhaps  the  most  considerable  of  the  three  districts — 
Universite^  Cite  and  Yille — of  which  Paris  Avas  and  is 
composed. 

On  the  evening  of  the  eighteenth  of  March,  1314,  one 
hour  after  sunset,  a  strange  and  memorable  spectacle  Avns 
Avitnessed  on  the  most  eastern  of  these  uninhabited 
islands — then  used  as  a  garden  for  the  Louvre — on  a  spot 
Avhere  now  stands  the  equestrian  statue  of  Henry  the 
Fourth* — that  square  area  which  projects  eastwardly 
from  the  platform  of  the  Pont  jSTeuf,  at  the  junction  of  ita 

*  Erected  by  Louis  XVIir.,  in  1818— the  original  bronze  statue  bv  Mary  de 
Medicis,  Queen  Dowauer  of  Henry  II.,  erected  in  1('>69,  having  heeu'destruyed 
Ui  17y2.  i^apoleou  designed  a  granite  obelisk  for  this  spot,  200  feet  high. 


THE  MART  YE  DOM. 


3^5 


northern  and  southern  branches:  and  which,  by- tlie -bye, 
can  ba  quite  as  plainl\'  denned  on  a  map  as  from  the 
bridge  itself,  if  not  more  so. 

A  strange  and  memorable  spectacle  ! 

The  couDsel  of  Blanche  of  Artois  was  observed. 

The  decree  of  the  Pope  Avas  pronounced. 

Tlie  orders  of  the  King  were  obeyed. 

The  Grand  Omcers  of  the  Temple  were  doomed. 

In  the  centre  of  that  solitary  islet  of  the  Seine  two 
stakes  Avere  planted,  famished  with  fetters  and  chains:; 
and  fagots  were  heaped  in  circles  around,  while  the  islet 
itself  was  invested  hy  troops. 

From  the  deep  dungeons  of  the  Chatelet,  at  the  liead 
of  the  Petit  Pont,  on  the  south  bank  of  the  Seine, 
through  a  Ioav  portal  Avhich  opened  on  the  stream 
beneath  the  abutment  of  the  bridge,  the  noble  victims 
were  brought  forth,  and  in  darkness  and  silence  con- 
veyed in  barges  to  the  place  of  execution. 

De  Chatillon,  the  Constable  ;  De  Xogaret,  the  Chancel- 
lor :  I)e  ^[arigni,  the  Minister;  and  the  infamous  TTil- 
liam  Imbert,  Grand  Inquisitor,  all  in  their  robes  of  ofhce, 
were  already  there. 

"  Jacques  de  Molai,"  said  Imbert,  at  this  last 
moment,  Avill  you  renew  your  confession  of  Chinon 
and.  save  yo^n:  life?"' 

"iNTever  !     was  the  prompt  response. 

''Gay  of  Xormandy,  at  this  last  moment,  will  you 
renew  your  confession  and  saA'e  your  life?  " 

The  same  stern  answer  Avas  giA'en. 

"Constable    of  France/'  cried   Imbert,  '"the  Holy 


846 


THE  MARTYRDOM. 


Clmrcli  resigns  tlie  heretics  to  secular  power  for  punisli- 
ment." 

Instantly  a  circle  of  dark  figures,  in  black  vizards, 
environed  tlie  victims  and  hurried  each  to  one  of  the 
spots  of  execution. 

For  tbe  last  time,  will  you  confess  ?  "  cried  the 
Inquisitor. 

"Never!"  was  the  simultaneous  and  immediate  reply. 
"  Constable  of  France, — your  duty  !  "    rejoined  the 
monk. 

And  at  once  dark  forms  swarmed  around  the  heaped- 
np  fagots,  and  applied  to  the  combustible  materials 
tlieir  blazing  torches.  At  that  moment,  from  the  tower 
of  JSTotre  Dame,  tolled  seven. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  was  the  foul  scene,  hitherto 
wrapt  in  profoundest  gloom,  revealed — the  dark  forms, 
of  the  executioners,  appropriately  garbed  in  sable  robes, 
which  strongly  contrasted  their  livid  and  terror-struck 
faces — the  serene  and  placid  countenances  of  tlie  ven- 
erable victims,  who,  with  hands  clasped  meekly  on 
their  bosoms,  and  lips  moving  in  prayer,  looked  trust- 
fully up  to  {hose  quiet  skies  with  the  bright  stars  above 
them,  whither  their  pure  souls  were  so  soon  to  wend 
their  way. 

As  the  red  glare  of  the  funeral  pyres  mounted  and 
spread,  fanned  into  fury  by  the  night-blast  of  winter,  the 
whole  surrounding  scenery  became  illumed  by  the  lurid 
light.  The  outlines  of  the  islet  itself,  hemmed  in  by  a 
fringe  of  glittering  spears,  stood  out  in  strong  relief, 
while  the  rushing  waters  of  the  swollen  Seine  all  around 


THE  ^^lARTYErOAI. 


3^7 


seemed  like  liquid  flarne  in  tlie  lieiy  reflect'ou.  On  tlie 
left  the  Convent  of  t'.ie  Augustines  and.  below,  tlie 
tall,  dark  Tower  of  Xesie  gleamed  redly  in  tlie  glare. 
On  the  right  rose  the  Church  of  St.  Germain  TAuxer- 
rois.  vrith  its  stuoendoas  rose-window,  and.  bevond,  the 
multitudinous  towers  of  the  Louvi'e  ;  while,  in  the  rear, 
the  vast  mass  of  tlie  Palace  of  Justice  and.  more  dis- 
tantly, the  huge  front  of  Xotre  Dame  loomed  up  in  giant 
shapes  against  the  bleak  eastern  sky. 

Along  the  quays,  too,  on  either  side,  anvl  over  the 
bridges,  began  to  be  viewed  numerous  tigures  liurrying 
wildly  along  as  the  flames  increased,  demanding  in  vain 
their  cause.  From  either  bank,  also,  put  out  innumer- 
able river  craft  to  that  lonely  islet.  For  a  moment  tliev 
were  seen  glancing  across  the  broad  stream  of  blool-red 
rushing  water,  and  then  thev  disappeared  beneath  the 
shadows  of  the  high  banks  and  were  seen  no  more.  But 
above  the  shadows  of  the  bank,  in  the  flashino;  flames, 
still  gleamed  the  glittering  spear-points  of  the  palace 
guards 

Upon  all  this  strange  and  memorable  scene  gazed 
more  than  one  from  the  casements  of  the  Louvre,  with 
■intense  solicitude  and  interest.  r)Ut  one  was  there,  who, 
alone — alone  on  the  highest  summit  of  the  tower  nearest 
to  the  scene,  gazed  on  with  excitement  almost  delirious 
with  excess.  That  one  was  a  Avoman,  and  that  woman 
'was  Blanclie  of  Arto's  ! 

From  the  council-chamber  of  the  King  she  had  repaired 
.to  her  own  apanment,  and,  having  enveloped  her  form 
in  the  folds  of  an  ample  cloak,  was  shortly  after  -finding 
22 


348 


THE  MAKTYRDOM. 


lier  way  up  tlie  spiral  stair  of  tlie  central  tower  of  tlie 
Lonvre.  For  nearly  an  hour  slie  waited  and  watched, — 
patiently ;  most  patiently,  despite  the  keen  and  cutting 
blasts,  which,  in  her  elevated  position,  swept  with  win- 
try fierceness  around  her  delicate  form.  But  she  felt 
tliem  not — she  felt  them  no  more  than  she  w^ould  have 
felt  those  devouring  flames  for  which  she  now  w^atched. 
There  was  a  flame  within,  which  defied  all  flames  with- 
out, and  rendered  to  her  all  the  sensations  of  humanity 
alike ! 

Breathless  she  listened  ;  but  she  heard  not  a  word. 
Her  counsel  and  the  King's  commands  were  well  obeyed. 
All  was  still — still  as  tlie  grave. 

At  length  the  clock  beneath  her  struck  the  hour  of 
seven,  and  the  whole  tower  trembled  with  the  vibrations 
of  the  heavy  bell.  At  that  moment  two  spiral  flames 
shot  up  from  the  solitary  islet,  on  which  her  eyes  had 
been  so  long  and  so  anxiously  fastened,  and  the' whole 
scene  became  instantly  illumed,  as  described. 

So  brilliant  were  the  flames  that,  even  from  the  dis- 
tant and  elevated  spot  on  which  she  st(wd,  she  could 
almost  distinguish  the  forms  and  faces  of  her  victims ; 
and  they  were  reflected  back  by  the  exulting  and  venge- 
ful flames  of  her  own  dark  eyes. 

Higher  and  higher  mounted  the  flames — fiercer  and 
fiercer  glowed  the  fire — brighter  and  brighter  became 
the  illumination,  until  all  Paris,  and  the  gliding  Seine, 
and  the  towers,  and  massive  churches,  and  palaces,  and 
prisons,  and  even  the  very  welkin  itself  seemed 
suffused  in  the  blood-red  glare  I 


THE  MAETYRDOM. 


349 


But  the  victims  moved  not,  spake  not,  sLrieked  not, 
as  had  been  the  Avont  of  other  victims  before  them. 
Like  their  great  Grand  Master,  Christ,  when  on  the 
cross,  they  uttered  not  a  word !  On  their  broad  breasts 
were  still  folded  their  hands — to  the  starry  heavens  were 
still  raised  their  eyes — in  praj^er  still  moved  their  lips.'^ 

And,  verih",  that  prayer  seemed  granted!  Yerily 
from  those  aged  and  innooent  sufferers  did  the  pangs  of 
mortality  seem  to  j^ass !  It  would,  A'erilj^,  seem  that 
they  suffered  not  at  all ;  else,  how,  how,  amid  those 
awful  tortures  with  which,  as  with  a  garment,  they  were 
wrapt,  could  those  venerable  faces  have  retained  the 
calm  serenity  they  bore !  It  would,  verily,  seem  that, 
by  a  miracle  vouchsafed  them,  the  extremest  tortiures  of 
frail  humanity  had  over  them  no  power! 

Tlie  flames — they  roared  and  raved,  and  rushed,  and 
raged  :  exultiugly  they  leaped  up  like  lions  around  their 
pre\^ ;  they  advanced  and  retreated — they  fell  and  rose 
again — they  danced  and  played,  and  murmured  and 
menaced,  and  sent  forth  their  mad  music  in  defiance  on 
tlie  blast.  Purple  and  silver,  and  blue  and  pink,  and 
yellow  and  bloody  red,  they  flung  forth  their  irised  hues 
on  all  things,  animate  or  inanimate,  around;  and  when 
for  a  single  instant,  the  pitiless  monster  paused  in  its 
purpose,  and  its  raA^ening  seemed  to  subside,  the  dark 
shades  of  ready  fiends  again  hovered  around,  and  fresh 
fao;ots  were  fluno-  from  a  distance — so  fierce  was  the 
fervor — and  again  the  flames  flashed  wildlj^  up  and 
brightly  sparkled  in  ascending  showers,  as  if  to  defy  the 


^  Veliy. 


850 


THE  MARTYRDOM. 


pure  heavens,  wliose  many  stars  looked  sorrowfully  down 
on  that  scene  of  man's  madness:  and  then  they  swept 
and  whirled  as  wildlj^  and  roared  and  raved  as  fiercely, 
and  danced  and  leaped  as  merrily,  as  ever  before. 

This  could  not  last.  Long  since  Lad  the  flames  reached 
their  victims.  Slowly  the  extremities  consumed,  and  in 
blackened  fragments  dropped  off.  Sinews  sliriveled, 
bones  crackled,  tendons  snapped,  arteries  burst,  flesh  fell 
away  into  ashes !  But,  wonderful  to  recite,  the  venerable 
victims  offered  no  sign  or  sound  of  anguish! 

Once  more  the  triumphant  element  sprang  madly 
upward — then — all  was  veiled  in  cloud  and  flame.  And 
then,  from  the  midst  of  that  cloud  and  flame,  which  in 
fury  rioted  around  the  great  Templars,  came  forth  a 
voice  as  of  Sinai  itself.  And  it  was  heard  by  the  dark 
ministers  of  pain  who  presided  over  the  torture,  and  the 
darker  ministers  of  fate  who  had  bidden  it ;  and  by  all 
Paris,  now  assembled,  with  pale  and  horror-struck  faces, 
along  the  illuminated  banks;  and  by  the  prelates  and 
princes  at  the  Louvre ;  and  by  Philip  of  France,  in  his 
council-chamber;  and  by  Blanche  of  Artois  in  her 
tower;  and  in  tones  of  thunder  it  said: 

"Clement,  thou  unjust  judge,  I  summon  thee,  within 
forty  days,  to  the  judgment  seat  of  God ! " 

And  all  was  still,  and  all  was  terror ! 

Again  that  fearful  voice  was  heard : 

"Philip  of  France,  within  one  year  and  one  day,  I 
summon  thee  to  meet  me!  ""^ 

*  Seretti  of  Vicenza  asserts  that  De  Molai  cited  Clement  within  forty  days, 
and  Philip  witUiu  a  year  and  a  day,  to  meet  hira  before  the  judgment  seat  of 

CrOd. 


THE  MARTYRDOM. 


351 


At  tliat  instant  the  flames  whirled  and  swept  anew. 
The  stake  fell!  A  cloud  of  sparks  leaped  and  eddied 
upward.    All  was  over! 

,  And  then,  from  tjiat  tall  palace- tower,  Avas  heard  a 
woman's  shriek  of  joy  : 

''Ha!  ha!  ha!  It  is  done!  Adrian,  Adrian,  thou  art 
avenged ! " 

Midnight  pealed  over  Paris.  The  flames  had  burned 
out: — the  multitude  had  dispersed: — in  terror  and  dis- 
may, and  in  grief  and  rage,  the  people  had  gone  to  thc'r 
homes: — the  Inquisitors  with  their  vile  familiars  had 
returned  to  the  Louvre:  they  were  surrounded  by  guards; 
and  well  were  it  for  them  it  was  so:  they  wou.ld  other- 
wise have  been  torn  into  fragments  by  an  infuriate  people. 

The  last  light  liad  gone  out  in  the  palace,~thG  last 
sound,  had  ceased.  All  was  still, — dark  and  still,  save 
the  everlasting  murmur  of  the  rusliing  Seine,  as  its 
waves  swept  on,  and  eddied  arou.nd  the  sliores,  of  tliat 
lonely  isle,  so  lately  the  scene  of  a  S23ectacle  so  horrid, 
now  lonelier  than  ever,  and  evermore  tlius  doomed ; 
accursed — accursed  forever!  And  the  solitary  boatman 
of  the  Tower  of  Nesle  as,  this  night,  even  as  on  a:l 
nights  before,  for  nine  long  years,  in  storm  or  in  calm,  in 
darkness  or  in  moonliglit, — he  glided  past  that  deserted 
spot,  sliuddered  and  turned  pale,  and  over  him  crept  a 
dark  presentiment  of  his  own  approaching  and  dreadful 
doom ! 

And,  wken  the  gray  dawn  was  breaking, — and  the 
icy  breath  of  winter  was  sweeping  down  the  Seine, — • 


852 


THE  MARTYRDOM. 


and  tlie  lonely  boatman,  hurrying  back  to  tlie  Louvre, 
was  passing  that  unhallowed  islefc  on  his  way  from  an 
unhallowed  couch, — strange  shapes  were  hovering  around 
the  fatal  spot, — and  the  long  white  mantle  of  the  Tem- 
ple was  caught  gleaming  faintly  in  the  ashy  dawn;  and 
mystic  rites  and  solemn  ceremonies  seemed  celebrated 
there. 

And  when  the  morning  broke,  and  sorrowing,  jet 
indignant  multitudes  crossed  over  the  water  to  rake  up 
the  cold  ashes  of  the  martyred  men,  to  give  them  con- 
secrated burial,  or  to  hand  them  down  in  reliquaries  to 
their  children's  children, — lo !  those  ashes  were  already 
gone!  and  the  keen  northern  blast  swept  a  naked  spot! 
And  each  said  to  the  other  that  the  winds  of  Heaven 
had  given  them  burial — had  taken  them  to  their  rest ! 

But  not  so  said  Philip  de  Launai.  He  said  nothing. 
He,  too,  was  a  Templar: — but,  alas!  he  was  an  apostate! 
He  had  sacrificed  all  things  most  sacred  to  a  guilty  love  I 

^  "Sf  ^  "X"  ^ 

r- 

Thus  perished  the  last  of  the  Military  Templars, — ■ 
the  last  of  the  Soldier-monks.  But  thus  perished  not 
the  Order  of  the  Temple,  though  thus,  by  its  foes,  was  it 
designed,  and  hoped,  and  believed. 

Prescient  of  his  approaching  doom,  with  prophetic 
kea,  a  whole  year  before  his  death,  Jacques  de  Molai 
had  sent  the  mystic  cipher  to  John  Mark  Lamienius  of 
Jerusalem,  then  presiding  at  Limisso,  in  the  Island  of 
Cyprus,  bidding  him,  at  once,  to  his  chamber,  in  the 
Temple  at  Paris.    Instantly  the  knight  obeyed.    Had  be 


THE  MARTYELCM. 


353 


"been  bidden  by  tlie  same  sign  and  ciplier  to  tlie  stake,  he 
^voiild  have  obeyed  none  the  less  ^viHinglv  nor  quickly  1 

On  this  distinguished  Templar,  avIio,  for  months,  as 
has  been  said,  ^vas  tlie  companion  of  De  Molai's  confine- 
ment, the  old  kniglit  secretly,  and  without  the  knowl- 
edge even  of  his  fellow  prisoners,  conferred  by  nomina- 
tion the  degres  of  Grand  Master  of  the  Order,  which  he 
then  himself  resigned .  and,  having,  in  due  form,  initi- 
ated him  into  the  mysteries  of  that  degree,  Avith  all 
anc'ent  rites  and  ceremonies,  and  having  presented  to 
him  his  own  sword,  together  with  his  baton  of  office,  the 
mystic  abacus,  he  comirnunicated  tl:e  word,  and  grip, 
and  sign  of  l\raster.  even  as  they  had  been  committed  to 
liim  by  TheobaL:!  Gaudiuius,  his  y^redecessor,  and  which 
by  him  alone  in  all -the  world  were  known,  and,  uncom- 
municated.  would  have  perished  vdili  him  fiix)m  the  etirth. 

But  they  perished  not,  and,  now.  nearly  six  centuries 
afterwards,  they  exist  in  all  their  efficacy,  having  been 
handed  down  through  twenty  or  thirty  sitccessors,  em- 
bracing among  them  some  of  the  most  remarkable  men 
who  haA'e  ever  lived,^ 

Subsequently  to  the  death  of  De  Molai,  his  sticcessoT 
made  known  to  the  order  his  nomination  to  the  rank 
thus  vacated,  to  the  dismay  and  amazement  of  all  its 
foes;  and,  thus  nominated,  Lamieniiis  was,  of  course, 

*  Tiio  great  B -L  Trand  dii  Gue-sclin  was  O- rand  Ma^^ter  of  tlip.  Templars  for 
more  rtiau  twenty  years.— from  l->57  to  July  13,  ISSCi,  when  lie  died,  at  the  age 
nf  six^y-six.  while"  b"e>ie,2;in2;  the  Eu>ilish  in' the  Castle  of  Randon.  in  Guienne. 
In  I'^S^.  Sir  Sidney  Smith  was  Grand  Master,  l")eing  the  51st  from  Hugh  des 
Pavt-ns  in  lllS,  and  th-^  ■2oth  from  Jacqu-^s  d^  Molai  in  129-S.  Several  of  the 
Moutmor^^neies  held  this  illustrioas  rank  and  durins  the  last  century  it  was 
filled  hv  Princes  of  the  House  of  B(^urb(»n.  aniont:  whom  was  Philip  Egalite, 
Duke  of  Orleans.  Some  years  since  tU"  Grand  blaster  ^^■a.s  Bernard  Piaymond 
Fabre  Palprat.     _  , 


354 


THE  MARTYRDOM. 


elected,  ill  accordance  witli  due  and  ancient  forms.  A 
grand  chapter  secretly  assembled  at  Cyprus, — an  Elect- 
ing Prior  and  his  assistant  were  cliosen, — all  night  in  the 
chapel  they  prayed, — in  the  morning  they  selected  two 
other  Priors,  and  the  four  two  more,  and  the  six  two 
more,  until  the  number  of  twelve, — that  of  the  Apostles, 
— was  completed.  These  twelve  selected  a  chaplain, 
and  the  thirteen  then  in  retirement  elected  a  Grand  Mas- 
ter of  tlio  order.  And  then  the  Grand  Prior,  entering 
the  chapter  at  the  liead  of  the  twelve  Electors,  in  stately 
procession,  exclaimed  : 

"John  Mai'li  Lamienius,  in  iho  name  of  God  the 
Father,  and  of  God  the  Son,  and  of  God  the  IIol}^  Ghost, 
thou  art  our  Master!  Brothers,  give  thanks! — behold 
your  Master! — advance  and  receive  his  orders!  " 

Then  the  whole  chapter  gathered  around  th.e  successor 
of  De  Molai,  and  vowed  to  obey  him,  in  all  things,  all 
their  lives. 

And  ever  since,  from  age  to  age,  and  from  generation 
to  generation,  have  the  same  election  rites  and  mysteries 
been  observed.  The  Order  of  the  Templars  still  exists 
in  all  the  chief  cities  of  Europe  and  the  world ;  and 
though  no  more  a  military,  or  an  ecclesiastical  brother- 
hood, its  rites  and  forms,  its  ceremonies  and  mj^steries, 
its  obligations  and  ties  of  unity  as  a  secret  affiliation,  are 
the  self-same  they  were  eight  hundred  years  ago.  This 
the  archives  oTtlie  order  preserved  in  that  portion  of  the 
Palace  of  the  Temple  which  3^et  remains,  going  back  to 
the  date  of  its  foundation,  abundantly  demonstrate. 
Among  these  ancient  and  ponderous  tomes  is  a  Greek 


THE  JIAllTYEDOM. 


355 


manuscript  of  the  Twelfth  Century,  containing  tlie  orig- 
inal record  of  the  institution  of  the  order;  also,  St.  Ber- 
nard's Eule,  and  the  confirmation  of  the  Pontiff,  and  the 
Golden  Table  or  the  c;ita]ogue  of  Grand  Masters,  from 
period  of  its  date  down  to  the  present  day.  Here,  too, 
are  the  ancient  seals,  and  standards,  and  reliques  and 
regalia  of  the  Temple,  and  the  massive  falchion  of 
Jacques  de  Molai,  together  with  a  few  fi'agments  of 
charred  bone  which  were  gathered  up  witii  his  aslies, 
and  sacredly  preserved,  enveloped  in  an  ancient  napkin. 

For  six  centnries,  the  Temple  at  Paris  has  been  tlie 
seat  of  the  order;  and  here,  every  year,  fi-om  all  Europe, 
on  the  eighteenth  day  ot*  March,  assemble  representatives 
of  tliat  ancient  fraternity,  to  commemorate  the  martyr- 
dom of  its  great  Master,  Jacques  de  Molai.  And  in  sol- 
emu  procession,  thence  proceed  they  to  the  spot  now 
indicated  by  the  statue  of  Henri  Quatre,  at  the  Pont 
jSTeuf,  and,  after  many  a  mystic  rite  and  impressive  cere- 
mony, they  march  around  the  memorable  place,  and,  as 
they  came,  return.^ 


*  On  the  IStli  of  ^March,  1S48.  notwithstiiiKlins;  the  convulspd  ccnidition  of 
Paris,  then  hi  revolution,  this  procession  was  wituessecl.  It  coiisisteil  of  only 
forty-eight  persons ;  but  of  these,  two  were  members  of  tlie  most  lllustrioiis 
fiimilies  in  France,  one  was  a  prince  of  the  hlood  roval  of  Spain,  one  a  Greek 
Boyard.  tlu-f^e  noblemen  of  Great  Brita'n,  ami  all  of  them  men  of  influence 
and  celeb.-lty.  Their  costume  was  black:  and,  on  the  left  lappel  of  the  long 
frock  coat  was  embroidered  a  scarlet  crucifix,  which,  the  coat  beijig  bun- 
toned,  would  escape  observation.  An  American  writinu"  from  Paris  und^r 
date  of  M,ii-ch,  1831,  says-— The  Order  of  Knights  Templar,  which  is  srill 
existing  in  Eu  -oi^e.  celebrated,  on  'i'uesday  last,  the  anniversarv  of  the  deatli 
of  .Taqiies  M,)lHi.  who  was  burnt  Ave  hundred  and  thirty-eight  years  aiio, 
under  the  accusation  of  felony,  sorcery  and  higli  treason.  This'executiou 
took  place  on  the  same  spot  where  now  stands  the  bronze  horse  of  Henry  tlie 
JVth,  on  the  Pont  Nenf.  The  Templars,  who  have  never  ceased  to  exist.'hehl 
their  annaal  meeting  in  their  lodge.  Rue  Notre  Dame  des  Victoii-es.  and 
many  new  knights  were  received  as  luemhen-s  nu  that  occasion.  'I  he  ceremoiiy 
was  imposing  a  lid  cr^-ated  a  deep  impiessiou  upon  the  small  number  of  persons 
who  were  admitted  in  the  tribunes." 


856 


THE  MAKTYRDOM. 


Ill  England,  tlie  encampment  at  Bristol  founded  by 
Templars,  who,  in  1194,  returned  witli  Kicliard  from 
Palestine,  is  still  in  vigorous  existence,  as  are,  also,  tlie 
original  encampments  at  Bath,  and  York. 

In  Portugal,  tlie  cross  of  the  "Kniglits  of  Christ"  is 
one  of  the  most  distinguished  badges  of  honor  conferred 
by  the  crown;  while,  in  every  capital  of  Christendom, 
many  of  the  most  influential  men  are  Templar  Knights. 

Truly,  then, — most  truly  spake  the  venerable  Jacques 
de  Molai,  when,  with  prophetic  prescience,  he  declared 
that,  though  he  might  perish,  his  beloved  order  would 
survive.  It  has  survived;  and  so  long  as  purity  and 
piety  are  respected  upon  the  eartli,^so  long  as  Faith, 
and  Hope,  and  Charity  continue  to  be  recognized,  so  long 
will  it  continue  to  exist ! 

Truth  crushed  to  earth  will  rise  again, 
Th*  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers  !  " 


THE  EETEIBUTIOX. 


857 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  RETPJEUTIOX. 

HO^iV  strikinglv  is  exempliiiod  a  retriljutive  Prov- 
idence in  tiie  destinies  of  men        of  nations! 
AVlien  Jacques  de  i\rOiai  died,  Le  summoned  Pope 
Clement  Fifth,  witliin  fortv  davs,  to  ti.e  judgment  seat 
of  God. 

And  so  it  vras.  Brief  and  terrible  Tv'as  Clernent's  1-fc, 
after  tliat  summons  was  c slivered  liim.  A  strange  con- 
viction seize:!  his  rnind, — a  strange  malady  seized  Lis 
frame.  Ilis  pnysicians  told  Lirn  lie  could  find  relief 
only  by  inhaling  the  atmosphere  of  his  native  place  ; 
and.  in  a  litter,  he  started  for  Bordeaux.  But  all  vas 
vain.  His  hour  came  before  he  reache.!  his  home.  On 
the  evening  of  April  20th,  1314,  he  Avas  compelled  to 
stop  at  the  little  village  of  Eonuemare,  on  the  Ehone.  in 
the  diocese  of  Xisrnes.  and  there,  in  despair  and  anguish, 
in  a  feAV  short  hours,  he  breathed  his  last. 

And  Philip  of  France: — immediately  after  the  execu- 
cution  of  the  Templars,  in  order  to  divert  the  thoughts 
of  the  People  of  Paris  from  that  avrful  event,  he  took 
occasion  to  confer  the  distinction  of  knightiiood  on  his 
tliree  sons,  a  ceremony  signalized  by  a  succession  oP 
pubhc  fetes,  which  continued  several  days.  In  the 
midst  of  theBe  festivities  came  intelligence  that  G-uy, 
Count  of  Flanders,  was  in  arms,  and  swept  his  border 


35S 


THE  RETRIBUTION, 


with  fire  aDcl  sv/ord.  Philip  was  at  ODce  in  the  war- 
saddle.  But  bis  star  was  in  rapid  decadence.  Only 
defeat  awaited  liim.  Bruges,  Ghent,  Courtraye,  one 
after  the  other,  were  retaken;  and  he,  who,  a  victor,  had 
ever  before  prescribed  whatsoever  articles  of  treaty 
might  seem  good  to  him,  was  now  forced  to  sign  such 
as  it  might  seem  good  to  his  once- vanquished  foes  ta 
prescribe. 

His  own  kingdom,  too, — and  this  touched  him  more 
nearly, — was  in  avovv^ed  revolt!  Picard}^,  Ciiampaigne, 
Artois,  BargLiridy,  Forez,  openly  conspired  to  resist  the 
imposts,  taxes,  and  debasement  of  coin,  instituted  to  meet 
tbe  expenses  of  an  unsuccessful  conflict;  and  they  laid 
down  their  arms  only  Vvdien  all  they  asked  wiis  conceded. 

From  England,  also,  cnme  evil  tidings.  His  royal  son- 
in-law,  Edward,  was  at  war  with  Scotland,^  and  hnd  sus- 
tained overvr  helming  reverses;  and  of  his  only  daugh- 
ter enough  may  be  inferred  from  the  single  sentence 
/  of  the  historian — "Since  the  days  of  the  fair  and  false 
Elfrida,  of  Saxon  celebrity,  no  Queen  of  England  has  left 
so  dark  a  stain  on  the  annals  of  female  royalty  as  the 
consort  of  Edward  Second,  Isabella  of  France." 

But  a  more  fearful  blow  than  this  awaited  him.  Pollu- 
tion was  on  his  own  threshold — infamy  was  in  his  own 
household!  Suddenly,  from  the  confessional,  it  is  said, 
came  forth  a  dreadful  charge — a  charge  of  adultery 
against  Margaret  of  Burgundy,  Queen  of  Navarre,  and  Jane 
of  Burgundy,  Countess  of  Poitiers,  immediately  suc- 

*  T1»e  defeat  of  Eclward,  by  the  Scots,  under  Bruee,  at  BaniMcI)!!!  ii, 
oocnned  June  24tli,  131-t,  witli  Hie  loss  of  bC,vUU  men,  of  vvliojii  inaiiy  ueie 
nobles.   Qi  the  Scots,  only  fell. 


THE  eeteibutio:t. 


359 


ceeled  by  a  similar  accusation, — liorror  of  li errors  !— 
against  tlie  oiilj  idol  of  liis  dark  bosom — Blaiielie  of 
Artois,  tliG  Countess  of  Marclic! 

Had  the  massive  tower  of  flic  Louvre  itself  fallen  upon 
tlie  guilty  Lead  of  Philip  of  France,  lie  could  not  have  been 
more  crushed  than  he  vas  now.  ^J'he  ignominy  of  his 
daugliters,  Jane  and  Margaret,  terrible  as  it  would  have 
been,  he  might  have  endured.  But,  BLanclie, — his  ow]i 
Blanche, — the  being  Avhom,  more  than  all  others, — whom 
alone  of  all  others,  he  had  loved, — his  pure,  perfect,  bril- 
liant, beautiful  Blanche, — his  able  counsellor  in  all  per- 
plexities,— his  fond  and  faithful  consoler  in  all  sorrows: 

"Oh,  God!"  he  exclaimed,  "the  Templar's  curse  is 
on  mo  now! 

But  grief  was  vain — regret  was  vain.  The  guilt  was 
proved  beyond  a  doubt — beyond  a  peradventure — a  guilt 
on  the  part  of  the  two  sisters  Margaret  and  Jane  of  nearly 
nine  years'  duration. 

Philip  and  AYalter  de  Launai  were  tried  by  special 
commission  at  Pontoise  and  condemned.  Then  their 
bodies  were  flayed  and  n:intilated,  and  di-agged  throngh 
stubble-fields  and  drawn,  and  the  entrails  burned  before 
their  eyes  and,  finall}^,  ihey  were  beheaded  and  suspended 
on  public  gibbets  there  to  rot  for  the  vulture's  maw. 

Ilexian  de  Beziers,  the  infamous  Prior  of  Montfau^on, 
and  William  du  Plessis,  the  monk  of  St.  Dominic,  who, 
witli  infernal  zeal  had  presided  with  Imbert  over  the 
torture  of  the  Templars,  shared,  also,  with  the  Inquis- 
itor, the  fate  of  the  paramours,  as  confidants  of  their 
guilty  loves. 


360 


THE  RETRIBUTION. 


The  loiig-coD tinned  and  unblusliing  criminality  of  tlie 
Queen  of  Navarre  was  so  clearly  proved,  and  by  so 
many  witDesses,  tiiat  not  a  doubt  of  Iter  gnilt  remaiued. 
Her  beautiful  liair  was  shorn  from  her  head,  and  Cha- 
lean-Gaillard,  an  impregnable  castle,  erected  by  Kichard 
Coeur-de-Lion  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  overhanging 
the  Seine,  near  the  village  of  Andely,  was  the  place 
appointed  for  her  imprisonment.  But  that  imprison- 
meut  Y\^as  brief.  In  a  few  months  she  was  secretly 
strangled  in  her  dungeon,  by  order  of  her  husband, 
Louis,  with  her  own  shroud ;  and  her  body  was  depos- 
ited in  the  church  of  the  CordeUers  of  Yernon.* 

The  chargo  against  the  Countess  of  Poitiers  was  in- 
vestigated by  tbe  Parliament  in  tlie  presence  of  her  uncle, 
Charles  of  Yalois.  But  Philip,  her  husband,  was  more 
politic,  or  less  jealous  than  his  brother.  He  cared  too 
little  for  his  wife,  and  too  much  for  another,  to  be  very 
regardful  of  her  affections,  or  her  favors :  and,  as  to  his 
honor,  he  thought,  and  very  Vvdsely,  perhaps — that  tbe 
worst  mode  of  sustaining  that  was  to  prove  himself  dis- 
honored !  So  he  affected  to  believe  the  fair  Countess  an 
innocent  and  injured  woman;  and  the  accommodating 
Parhament,  having  no  Avish  to  disoblige  so  amiable  a 
prince,  thoLight  the  same,  so,  therefore,  Jane's  accusers 
were  all  executed  instead  of  herself;  and  she  lived,  for 
some  seven  years,  a  most  discreet  life  till  Philip  died. 
"  But,"  says  the  historian,  her  widowhood  is  stained  by 
crimes  of  tbe  most  revolting  nature,  and  the  scenes  which 


*After  tlie  assassination  of  Marg-aret,  Louis  married  Clemence  of  Hungary, 
a  Neapolitan  princess,  (laughter  of  Charles,  surnametl  Matiet,  the  Hammer. 


THE  RETRIBUTION. 


361 


took  place  at  the  Abbejr  of  Maubuisson  v/ere  enacted  at 
her  resideoce,  the  Hotel  de  Nesle,  with  double  depravity. 
The  towers  of  that  dark  edifice  were  bathed  by  the  wa- 
terii  of  the  Seine,  and  all  those  wlio  had  the  niisfortaue 
to  attract  Jane's  criminal  regards  were  invited  to  the 
eliateau,  and  were  afterward  precipitated  from  the  heights 
into  the  water,  to  prevent  a  recital  of  her  infamy." 

And  Blanche  of  Artois  : — For  a  time  she  was  a  willing 
prisoner  in  the  Castle  of  Gauray,  near  Contances.  But 
she  was  never  brought  to  trial,  as  the  evidence  against 
her  was  e::ceeclingiy  vague,  although  among  other  charges 
she  was  accused  of  having  secretly  given  birth  to  a  child 
at  the  Abbey  of  Manbuisson.  For  herself,  she  admitted 
nothing,  and  she  denied  nothing.  Of  the  enormity  of 
the  offences  of  which  she  was  accused  she  seemed  to  en- 
tertain not  the  slightest  appreciation.  Indeed,  for  both 
accusations  and  accusers  alike  she  manifested  only  jn'o- 
found  indifterence.  She  reachly  united  with  her  husband 
in  a  petition  to  the  Pope  for  a  divorce,  and  it  was 
granted.*  She  then  retired  to  the  Abbey  of  Manbuis- 
son, the  early  scene  of  her  guilty  love.  With  her  went 
her  now  inseparable  companion,  Marie  MorfontairiC ; 
and,  after  brief  penance  and  novitiate,  the  Countess  took 
the  veil. 

Broken  down  in  spirit  by  these  repeated  end  heavy 
reverses  and  many  others f  and  consumed  by  the  cease- 

*  Tliedivnrce  of  Charles  and  Blanche  was  pronounced  by  John  XXII..  on 
plea  that  Matilda,  Countess  of  Artois,  her  inotlier,  had  been  liis  godmother! 
The  kindred  was  close,  indeed ! 

t  Bussey  says,  that  Jane,  Queen  of  Philip,  not  long  married,  was  poisoned 
shortly  after  the  execution  of  De  iSIoIai !  Jane  of  Navarre,  his  first  wife,  died 
at  the'Chateau  of  Vlncenues,  April  2, 1305, 


862 


THE  RETRIBUTION. 


less  gnawings  of  remorse,  Philip  of  France  soon  became 
as  shattered  in  body  and  mind,  as  be  already  was  in  heartc 
The  summons  of  tlie  dying  Temphar  to  follow  him  within 
the  year  seemed  forever  to  hang  over  and  oppress  his 
mind,  especially  since  tlie  remarkable  death  of  Clement; 
while  the  loss  of  his  favorite  Blanche  deprived  him  of 
his  sole  consolation  when  it  was  needed  most.  Pale, 
emaciated,  sad,  broken-spirited,  who  could  imagine  in 
him  the  brave,  impetuous,  chivalric  Philip  le  Bel  as  we 
have  known  him  at  the  Abbey  of  St.  Jean  d'Angely, 
rnd  of  Lis  belter  and  happier  days,  as  he  now  tottered 
feebly  about  the  Louvre,  amid  the  scenes  of  his  former 
splendor  ? 

At  length  the  physicians  of  the  King  said  to  Philip 
what  the  phj^sicians  of  the  Pope  had  said  to  Clement — 
"  You  must  breathe  3^our  native  air,  or,  you  must  die  " — • 
the  last  advice  of  physicians  then,  as  now,  when  that, 
as  well  as  all  else,  is  vain.  The  King  was  accordingly 
conveyed  to  his  birth-spot, — Fontainebleau,  some  fifleen 
leagues  from  Paris,  on  the  Lyons  route.  But  not  the 
flowery  shades,  nor  the  perfumed  a'rs,  nor  the  leafy 
groves  of  Araby  the  blest  can  minister  health  to  a 
"  mind  diseased  " — a  spirit  crushed — a  conscience  haunted 
by  inexpiable  crime.  Dailj^  and  hourly  Philip  sank. 
L[is  malady  Avas  called  consumption.  It  was  so.  Con- 
sumption of  the  heart.  He  felt  that  he  must  die, — that 
he  was  doomed  ;  and  he  sent  for  Louis,  his  eldest  son  and 
successor,  and  gave  him  his  last,  and  most  ealutary  ad- 
vice, respecting  the  governance  of  the  realm  whose  throne 
Le  was  about  to  mount.    His  own  errors  he  most  freely 


THE  RETRIBUTION 


S63 


and  fully  confessed  and  sorrowed  over  ;  and  lie  bade  liis  son 
take  warning  by  liis  fate.  Ail  the  edicts  of  liis  reign,  by 
wliicli  be  bad  oppressed  bis  people,  be  revoked;  and, 
after  conjuring  bis  successor  to  avoid  liis  own  errors,  and 
to  provide  a  remed}^  for  tl^eir  injurious  effects,  especial  1}^ 
toward  tbe  injured  Templars,  be  died.  And  witb  princely 
pomp  and  regal  obsequ}-,  bis  body  was  conveyed  to  St. 
Denis  and  bis  beart  to  tbe  Abbey  of  Poissy  erected  by 
bis  fatber."^ 

Pbilip  of  France  died  on  tbe  29tb  day  of  Xoveniber, 
1314:  and  then  was  remembered  tbe  dying  summons 
of  Jacques  de  Molai,  just  seven  montbs  before — "  AVitbin 
tills  year  I  summon  tbee  to  tbe  judgment  of  God !  " 

On  tbe  decease  of  Pbilip,  all  bis  Ministers,  wbo  by' 
tbeir  active  zeal  in  executing  bis  iniquitous  scbemes  bad 
secured  bis  favor  and  tbe  batred  of  all  otbers,  experienced.' 
tbe  severest  rcA^erses.  Upon  tbem,  of  course,  was  cbarged 
all  tbe  embarrassments  of  tbe  government,  and  all  tbe- 
oppression  and  disaffection  of  tbe  people  wliicb  bad  tbeir 
origin  under  tbeir  administration  of  tbe  government. 
But  upon  Enguerrand  de  Marigni,  wbo,  after  tlie  arrest 
as  a  Templar  of  tbe  Grand  Prior  of  Acquitaine  avIio  had 
been  Minister  of  Finance,  bad  bim self  assumed  tbe  regu-: 
lation  of  tbat  department,  descended  tbe  liea,viest  blow." 
Cbarged  by  Charles  of  Yalois, bis  ancient  and  inveterate 
foe,  ^^utb  pecubation  upon  tbe  public  treasures,  be  was  ar- 
rested, at  tbe  door  of  tbe  Hotel  of  tbe  Fosses  St.  Germain, 
loaded  witb  chains  and  plunged  into  tbe  dungeons  of  the 

*  Philip's  end  is  said  bvsome  writers  to  have  been  hastened  by  a  fail  from 
bis  horse,  through  debility,  while  hunting  the  wild  boar  iu  the  forests  of  Fon- 
taiuebleau.  -  - 

23 


864 


THE  RETRIBUTION. 


Temple, — those  yerj  dungeons,  into  wliicli  liimself  had 
plunged  the  victim  knights  !  Then,  arose  against  him 
another  cliarge,  more  dreadful  in  that  age  than  all  others, 
as  had  been  proven  by  the  fate  of  tlieuuliappj  Templars; 
and,  in  this,  with  himself,  was  associated  his  wife,  Alips 
de  Mons,  and  his  sister,  the  Lady  of  Canteleu,  and  their 
alleged  familiar,  Jacques  Delor.  That  charge  was  .sor- 
ccT?/, — the  very  charge  himself  had  instituted  against  the 
Templar  Knights  !  Nothing  could  save  him !  From  the 
dungeon  he  was  conveyed  to  the  rack, — from  the  rack  to 
the  wood  of  Yincennes  where  he  was  sentenced,  and  thence, 
in  the  habit  of  a  convict,  bearing  in  his  hand  a  taper  of 
yellow  wax,  to  the  gibbet  of  Montfaugon,  which  himself 
had  just  erected.  And  there,  at  break  of  day,  just  one 
year^  after  the  summons  of  De  Molai,  he  was  hanged, 
and  his  body  was  suspended  in  chains. 

Raoul  de  Presle,  the  Advocate-General  of  the  King, 
who  had  deposed  against  the  Templars,  was  arrested 
with  De  Marigni,  of  whom  he  was  the  intimate  friend, 
on  charge  of  having  conspired  against  the  life  of  the  late 
King.  All  his  lands  and  effects  wei-e  at  once  confis- 
cated,— his  body  was  consigned  to  the  dungeons  of  St. 
Genevieve  and  to  the  rack ;  and,  though,  subsequently, 
he  was  acquitted,  his  property  was  never  restored. 
Happily  for  William  de  ISTogaret,  he  231'eceded  to  the 
grave  the  master  he  had  served  so  Avickedly  and  so 
well. 

Henry  Cape tal.  Provost  of  Paris,  under  whose  charge, 

*  April,  30, 1315.  Tlie  wife  and  sister  of  De  Marigni  were  immured  in  dun- 
geons fov  life!  Delor  hanged  himself  in  his  cell,  and  his  wife  was  burned 
alive  I 


THE  RETRIBUTION^. 


365 


in  tlie  dungeons  of  tlie  Chatelet,  tlie  iinliappj  Templars 
liad  been  so  rigorously  imprisoned  and  so  heavily  fet- 
tered, and  led  tlieiice  to  the  stake,  was  accused  of  having 
substituted,  on  the  gibbet,  in  place  of  a  rich  assassin, 
justly  doomed,  a  friendless  citizen,  incarcerated  for  theft, 
in  consideration  of  an  enormous  bribe.  Tlie  crime  ^vas 
proven,  and  the  Provost  and  the  prisoner  both  swung  on 
the  same  gibbet  which  had  borne  their  victim. 

The  apostate  Tem})lar,  Noffo  Dei,  was  hanged  for 
robbery;  and  S:j_uin  de  Florian  was  slain  in  a  drunken 
quarrel. 

In  view  of  these  events,  well  may  we  exclaim — "  If 
this  be  chance,  it  is  wonderful!'' 


866 


THE  CONCLUSION. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE  CONCLUSION. 

BUT  Blanclie  of  Artois, — slie  died  not.  The  miser- 
able seldom  die  as  others  do.  Not  that  she  was 
really  now  as  miserable  as  she  had  been.  She  was  only 
hopeless, — senseless.  Earth  and  earth's  objects  were  to 
lier — nothing!  A  wild  revenge  had  succeeded  in  her 
bosom  a  wilder  love;  and,  between  them,  her  heai't  had 
been  consnmed  to  ashes.  That  heart,  once  inhabited  by 
the  angel.  Love,  became  the  dwelling  of  the  fiend, 
Vengeance.  That  fiend  had,  accomplished  its  purpose, 
and  had  departed;  and  the  heart  was  a  tenantless 
sepulchre. 

It  is  impossible  to  conceive  a  vacuum  more  complete 
than  wa^  now  tte  heart  of  Blanche  of  Artois,  or  an 
indifference  more  utt^r  than  that  felt  and  manifested  by 
her  for  all  earthly  objects,  and  interests,  and  individuals. 

What  to  her  were  accusations  of  infamy?  True,  those 
charges  were  vague,  and  undefined,  and  there  had  been 
little  effort  on  her  part  to  render  them  less  so;  but,  once, 
a  breath  only  of  suspicion  on  her  fair  fame  would  have 
roused  her  to  frenzy.  To  her  now  it  was  a  thing  of 
entire  unconcern  whether  she  was,  or  was  not,  deemed 
pure.  She  cared  for  no  one — she  cared  for  nothing.  If 
the  world  respected  not  lier,  it  could  hardly  have  less 
respect  for  her  than  she  had  for  it,  or  for  its  laws,  or  for 


THE  CCXCLUSIOX.  867 

its  penalties.  She  was  as  regardless  of  its  love  as  of  its 
hate. — of  its  worship  as  of  its  contumely;  aii'l  she  cared 
to 3  httle  for  either  to  indulge  for  them — eveu  coniewpt. 

Her  heart  was  a  tomb  without  a  tenant.  All  passioi]^ 
and  all  emotions,  and  all  sympathies, — almost  all  sensa- 
tio:is  were  dead  in  her.  Her  veios  were  as  cold  as  those 
of  a  hronze  statue,  and  the  blood  that  comsed  thei^i  as 
gelid  as  are  the  ice-lakes  of  the  Alps.  Over  her  reigned 
an  ererlasting  stupor. 

-  And,  yet,  she  lived,  and  moved,  and  breathed. — she 
slept,  she  ate.  she  drank,  even  as  others  do.  Her  bodily 
health  seemed  never  better, — her  frame  was  never 
stronger. — ^never  more  capable  of  endurance.  Disease, 
that  laid  low  others,  touched  not  her: — the  black  wins: 
ol  pestilence  shadowed  not  her  brow,  though  if  swept 
others  away  with  its  pall;  the  angel  of  death  circled  her 
with  coi'pses,  and  then  passed  on ;  his  deadly  spear-point 
touched  her  not ;  she  coidd,  not  die  I  IN'or  did  she  care 
to  die;  no  more,  at  least,  than  she  cared  to  live;  to  life 
or  to  death,  she  seemed  alike,  equally,  and  most  incon- 
ceivably indifferent. 

-  In  all  the  penance  and  all  the  prayers,  and  all  the 
countless  devotions  of  the  cloister  whither  she  had 
sought  rest,  no  saint  could  have  been  more  severely 
observant  than  was  she.  Yet  her  worship  was  not  of 
the  soul.  Her  heart  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  She 
had  no  heart,  indeed,  for  anything. — not  even  for  the 
service  of  her  God. — not  even  for  her  God  Himself! 
i^ight  after  night,  in  the  depths  of  winter,  she  knee-led 
until  the  dawn  before  the  altar,  .on- the  rough  stones  o£ 


363 


THE  CONCLasiON". 


the  damp,  cliill  cloister  chapel.  But  she  felt  not.  Her 
bosom  glowed  not  with  that  piety,  which  renders 
humanity  unconscious  of  its  weaknesses  and  indifferent 
to  the  severity  of  the  elements ;  nor  was  her  body  a  suf- 
ferer for  the  sins  of  the  soul.  She  suffered  not  as  a  mortal, 
she  repented  not  as  a  saint.  Severest  penance  was  no 
penance  to  her.  Mechanically — uniformly — unvaryingly 
■ — unfeelingly — most  exemplarily — she  went  through  all 
the  exactest  requisitions  of  the  Beguine  Bule.  But  she 
fdt  nothing.  How  could  she  ?  All  penitential  cere- 
monies and  inflictions  she  unflinchingly  observed ;  but 
of  true  repentance  she  knew  nothing. 

Of  what  should  she  repent  ?  Of  her  mad  love  ?  Alas ! 
that  now  to  her  was  the  dearest — the  only  dear  thing  in 
existence  !  Eepent  of  her  love  for  Adrian  !*  Impossible ! 
If  there  had  been  one  pure,  one  sacred,  one  hallowed 
impulse  in  the  history  of  her  wdiole  life,  her  wild  love 
seemed  to  her  that  one.  If  that  love  had  been  guilt, 
then,  alas!  was  she  most  guilty  ;  for  to  her  it  had  been 
the  most  sacred  emotion  of  her  life.  How  could  she 
repent  of  that  fvir  the  brief  indulgence  of  which, — so  bit- 
terly recompensed, — she  could  realize  no  crime  ?  Had 
not  Adrian,  in  the  sight  of  God,  and  in  her  own  heart, 
been  her  husband? — her  only  true  and  actual  husband? 
Had  not  be  for  one  whole  3^ear  slumbered  on  her  bosom  ? 
— was  he  not  the  father  of  her  child?  And  whose 
rights,  or  whose  love,  or  whose  covenant, — (broken  as 
all  covenants  had  been  broken  by  him  whom  man  called 
her  husband) — ii;/iose  transcended  Adrian's  ?  Who  had 
ever  loved  her  as  he  had?    Whom  had  she  ever  loved 


THE  CONCLLXIOX. 


309 


as  slie  Lad  loved  liim?  And  no^r  to  re^oent  of  tliat  love 
- — the  dearest — purest  tiling  in  all  lier  life  I  Slie  could 
suffer  for  it ; — suffering  she  cared  not  for.  Kay,  gladly 
would  she  Lave  braved  all,  and  endured  all,  had  all  Leen 
before  Ler  again  to  brave,  and  to  endure.  Oh  1  Lo\v 
cheaply,  by  years  of  suffering,  would  she  have  purchased 
a  single  Lour  of  the  past! 

•  now  then  could  she  repent  of  that  which  she  regarded 
thus?  She  felt, — she  knew, — that  were  she  on  her 
dying-bed,  and  about  going  in  spirit  before  Ler  God,  Ler 
last  ejaculation  would  be  Ler  lover's  name,  and  Ler  last 
memory  of  earth,  and  Ler  brightest  Lope  of  Heaven,  Ler 
ill-starred  love. 

If  tliat  were  guilt,  then  gladly  would  she  go  a  guilty 
being  into  eternity.  She  felt  that  any  Avorld  with 
Adrian  would  be  Heaven, — tliat  any  world  without  Lini 
would  be — Hell! 

.  And  her  wild — mad — awful  vengeance — could  she 
repent  of  that  ?  Alas  I  on  that  side  Ler  Leart  was  iron. 
To  her,  the  sufferings  of  others  were  nothing.  "What 
tortures  could  equal  Lers?  "Who  Lad  suffered, — could 
suffer,  as  sLe  had?  Whose  wrongs  Lad  been  like  Ler 
own?  Wliat  retribution  could  exceed  their  just  re- 
compense ? 

But  all  these  thoughts  Lad  passed  away  now.  SLe 
thought  of  nothing,  and  felt  nothing,  even  as  she  cared 
for  nothiug.  She  was  a  being  of  cold,  calm  intellect. 
Feeling  had  in  Ler  no  part.  Man  and  woman,  all 
animate  and  all  inanimate  things — were  alike  to  her. 
Mechanically — as  a  Beguine  Nun,  she  was  charitable ; 


370 


THE  CONCLU3I02T. 


nay,  more,  slie  was  profuse — extravagant  in  her  cliarities. 
All  her  vast  revenues  were  thus  expended ;  and  on  her 
descended  unnumbered  blessings  of  the  wretched  and. 
the  destitute.  But  for  that  she  cared,  not.  Her  benevo- 
lence, her  penance  and  her  conventual  observance  were 
all  one.  She  was  a  mere  automaton,  self-moved  and 
acting  in  itself,  and  for  itself. 

There  was  but  one  being  in  the  whole  world  for 
whom  Blanche  of  Artois  seemed  to  manifest  the  most 
distant  approach  to  human  sympathy.  That  being  was 
the  poor  orphan,  Marie  Morfontaine. 

The  feelings  of  Blanche  towards  tlio  young  girl  she 
had  so  deeply  injured  were  strange — undefined — undefin- 
able.  She  loved  to  haA^e  the  orphan,  uear  her, — to  clasp 
her  to  her  heart  at  night, — to  be  beside  her  by  day,  and 
to  minister  to  her  necessities  at  all  times,  especially  when 
ill ;  and  never  chd  mother  sacrifice  her  own  comfort  to 
an  only  child,  as  did  Blanche  of  Artois  to  Marie  Morfon- 
taine at  times  .like  these.  Indeed,  her  own  comfort  or 
wishes  she  would,  at  any  time,  cheerfully  yield  to  the 
merest  caprice  of  her  beloved  cliarge.  Marie  could  have 
not  a  wish  that  Blanche  did  not  anticipate  and  provide 
for, — not  an  apprehension  that  Blanche  did  not  foresee 
and  forefend.    AYhy  was  this? 

Marie  Morfontaine  was  to  Blanche  of  Artois  the  last 
and  the  sole  memorial  of  the  only  being  she  had  ever 
truly  loved.  Had  her  child  survived,  on  that,  doubt- 
less, would  her  wealth  of  woman-tenderness  have  been 
expended.  But  it  died, — Adrian  died  ; — Marie,  his  first, 
boy-love — -his   school-playmate, — alone  remainedj  and 


THE  conclusion; 


371 


she  was  the  only  living  link  that  connected  her  with 
him. 

Why  womler,  then,  that  on  ^Eai'ie  Morfontaine  alone 
the  rock  thns  smitten  ponreil  i'orth  its  floods, — cold, 
indeed,  though  those  floods  might  be  ? 

Thus  passed  away  day  after  day — month  after  month 
— year  after  year.  But  to  Blanche  of  Artois  what  were 
the  changes  of  Time — of  Dynasties,  or  of  Kings  ?  What 
cared  she  that  the  race  of  Hugh  Capet  was  no  longer  on 
the  throne  of  France,  and  that  the  branch  of  Valois  had 
overshadowed  and  succeeded.  Wliat  cared  she  that 
Philip  le  Long  had  succeeded  Louis  h  HiUin  to  the  crown, 
and  that  her  own  former  husband,  Charles  le  Bel,  hav- 
ing married  Mary  of  Luxembourg,  daughter  of  the  Em- 
peror, had  become  the  King  of  France?  What  cared 
she  that  Isabella  of  England  was  in  Paris  with  her  par- 
amour, Eoger  Mortimer,  an  exile  from  her  own  throne 
and  realm  ?^  What  cared  she  for  all  or  for  any  of  the 
mighty  events  that  were  now  agitating  the  world — she, 
secladed  in  the  quiet  shades  of  the  Abbey  of  Maubuis- 
son,  hovering  by  day  like  a  charmed  bird  around  the 
scenes  of  her  once  passionate  love,  and  dreaming  by  night 
of  their  events?  The  little  grave  of  her  child,  of  Yvhich 
no  one  in  all  the  wide  world  kncAV  save  herself,— the 
spots  which  had  witnessed  the  early  interviews  and 
ripening  passion  of  her  ill-starred  love, — oh,  how  strangely 
dear  were  they  all  to  her  1 

And  yet  she  exhibited  not  one  pulse  of  emotion, — 


*  Charles  le  Bsl  repudiated  his  \Yife  for  tlie  very  oSeuce  he  countenanced 
ill  his  siiter !  _ 


872 


THE  CONCLUSION. 


no,  not  even  to  Marie  Morfontaine  Lerself!  In  lier  "heart 
all  was  huslied, — still, — sacred, — liallowed.  To  no 
bumnn  eye  could  that  heart  be  laid  bare.  Alas!  not 
even  to  herself,  or  to  her  God,  did  she  reveal  its  dread- 
ful secrets  1 

^riiis  stupor  was  terrible, — more  terrible  than  even 
death  itself! 

It  is  a  fearful  thing — whicli  those  only  who  have 
witnessed  can  appreciate — to  behold  a  human  being,  or 
even  to  imagine  one,  who  breathes  the  same  air,  and 
walks  the  same  earth,  and  Avears  the  same  form,  that  we 
all  do,  who  is,  yet,  to  all  external  objects, — to  all 
thoughts,  and  all  sympathies, — to  all  the  world  of  living 
things, — only  a  statue  of  adamant;  and  who  is  moi'e 
truly  dead,  than  if  the  heavy  tomb-tablet  had,  indeed, 
closed  over  him.  To  part  Avith  the  dead  is  hard.  Alas! 
is  it  less  so  than  to  part  tlius  with  the  living? 

Yet  thus  was  it  with  the  once  brilliant  and  beautiful 
Blanclie  of  Artois.  There  is  another  insanity, — another 
fatuity  than  that  of  the  brain.  It  is  a  monomania — a 
mono-paralysis  of  the  heart ;  and  that  was  hers. 

With  the  unhappy  orphan,  Marie  Morfontaine,  it  was 
not  so.  She  was  a  different  being  from  Blanche.  She 
was  the  pensile  willow — not  the  stern  oak.  The  bolt 
that  scathed  or  shattered  the  one  only  bowed  the  other 
to  the  earth. 

She  faded — faded,  that  gentle  girl,  even  as  the  autum- 
nal flowers  fade  befoi'e  the  winter's  breath.  She  had  no 
perceptible  disease, — she  never  spoke  of  pain;  and  un- 
complainingly,— meekly, — mildly, — piously,  she  passed 


THE  COXCLUSION. 


373 


tlirougli  all  severest  exaction  of  the  iron  rule  to  whicli 
slie  had  resigneJ  Lerself^ — 

With  not  a  word  of  mnniiur, — not, 
A  sigh  o'er  her  untimely  lot, 
V\'\Ui  all  the  wLile  a  cheek,  whose  bbom 
Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb." 

Every  impulse  of  resentment  or  revenge  had  long 
since  ceased  to  swell  her  gentle  bosom.  Bitterly,  in  tbe 
dust  and  ashes  of  a  penit-ential  woe  had  sbe  bewailed 
tiiat  rnad  infatuation,  vrbich  had  consigned  the  only 
being  she  had  ever  loved  to  an  untimely  and  dreadfal 
doom,  Evervthing  which  had  once  seemed  to  her 
incomprehensible  in  his  conduct  was  now  revealed.  She 
knew  now  that  of  which  before  she  had  never  dreamed, 
that  his  parents,  influenced  by  the  unhappv  Countess  of 
jyiaTche.  had  forbidden  his  suit  for  lier  hand;  and  her 
own  heart  confessed  that  to  have  resisteh  iu  i^is  despair, 
the  consolation  held  out  bv  the  overwhelmino;  love — the 
indescribable  seductions,  and  the  almost  angelic  loveli- 
ness of  the  most  accomphshed  woman  of  the  age,  he 
must  have  been  more,  or  less  than  man.  But,  while, 
mtli  all  her  soul,  she  forgave  her  lover  and  her  fidend, 
to  forgive  herself  seemed  impossible.  Could  slie  have 
sacrificed  her  life  in  atonement  for  her  fauh,  how  gladly 
wonld  not  the  ohermo-  have  been  made  1  The  world 
■with  all  its  aspirations,  and  ail  its  splendors,  and  ah  its 
honors,  had  no  charm  for  her.  Hope,  the  enchantress 
of  youth,  had  for  her  youth  no  sorcery.  Of  love  she 
never  though t,  nor  even  dreamed;  audj  long  before  her 


374 


THE  CONCLUSION". 


reti^  eineot  to  llie  shades  of  Maubuisson,  Eclmoad  de  Goth 
aud  bis  proposals  had  beeu  dismissed  forever.  Devoted 
to  most  severe  observance  of  the  Begaine  Rule,— though 
she  bad  not  as  yet  deemed  herself  worthy  to  assume  its 
vow  and  its  veil— her  days  were  employed  in  the  dis- 
tribution of  her  vast  wealth  for  the  relief  of  destitution 
and  the  advancement  of  her  holy  faith,  and  her  nights  in 
penitential  prayer;  with  no  thonght  of  earth — no  pas- 
sion of  human  frailt3^  save  tbe  sad  memory  of  that  buried 
love,  which  partook  more  of  tbe  Heaven  to  Avhicli 
she  looked  forward  for  its  renewal  than  of  the  world 
in  which  it  originated.  As  the  young  wife  mourns  the 
losG  of  that  husband  in  whose  grave  is  entombed  her 
heart,  so  mourned  Marie  Morfontaiiie  for  her  beloved 
Adrian;  and,  unconsciously  and  imperceptibly,  each  day, 
as  it  elapsed,  seemed  to  hasten,  even  more  rapidly  thaa 
Time  itself,  to  re-unite  her  to  her  loved  and  lost. 

The  devotedness  of  the  young  orphan  to  the  obser^ 
vances  of  her  faith  was  only  exceeded  at  Maubuisson  by 
that  of  Blanche  of  Artois;  and  hers  Avas  a  devotion, 
which  was  ere  long  to  canonize  as  a  saint  one,  who,  as  a 
woman,  had,  like  Mary  of  old,  deeply  loved  and  deeply 
sinned.  Often,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night-time,  when 
sleep  weighed  every  eyelid  of  that  vast  convent  save 
her  own,  she  would  rise  from  the  hard  couch  of  her  soli- 
tary cell,  and,  pacing  the  dim  aisles  and  chill  corridors 
of  the  cloister,  repair  to  the  altar,  and,  on  the  damp" 
pavement  of  the  chapel,  kneel  in  prayer  until  the  dawnj 
and  here  she  w^as  often  joined  by  her  youthful  friend.  > 
:  At  length,  one  morning,  during  the  season  of  Lent^ 


THE  CONCLUSION. 


875 


just  as  tlie  grayligbt  was  beginning  to  steal  tliroiigli  tlie 
tall  Gothic  casements  of  the  cliurcb,  a  pious  penitent  of 
tlie  convent  crept  noiselessly  np  the  aisle  to  bend  before 
tlie  shrine.  That  spot  was  already  filled.  There  kneeled 
a  form  garbed  in  the  black  serge  of  the  order ;  and,  as 
the  penitent  paused  and  looked  more  closely,  she  recog- 
nized by  the  increasing  light  the  still  matchless  shape  of 
Blanche  of  Artois.  On  the  cold  pavement  she  kneeled; 
her  transparent  hands  were  meekly  folded  on  her  bosom ; 
her  brow  rested  on  the  altar  of  her  God. 
'  Long  did  the  pious  penitent  forbear  to  disturb  tlie 
seeming  devotion  of  her  yet  more  penitent  sister.  At 
length,  approaching,  slie  kneeled  beside  that  form,  tliat 
their  petitions  might  together  ascend  to  Heaven.  But 
that  Ibrm  moved  not — ^^seemed  not  conscious  of  the  ap- 
proach. Startled,  the  Beguine  pressed  the  kneeling  figure 
with  a  gentle  touch.  Still  it  moved  not — gave  no  sign. 
She  spoke — there  was  no  answer ! 
Blanche  of  Artois  was  dead  ! 

Amid  the  dread  solitudes  of  that  consecrated  pile, — • 
alone  with  her  God, — in  the  deep  stiUness  of  night  when 
sleep  falleth  on  man  and  shades  of  the  departed  come 
back  to  those  they  love  ; — in  loneliness  and  in  darkness, 
that  proud,  stern  spirit — once  gentle — once  impassioned 
-—had  passed  to  its  rest;  to  a  world  where  earth's  evil 
troubleth  not, — where  human  ties  can  no  more  cause 
human  misery, — there  to  join,  as  she  hoped,  and  from 
him  never  again  to  be  parted,  that  being  so  wildly,  so 
guiltily,  so  fatally  loved  ! 

*  Hi  *  Jf:  4f 


876 


THE  CONCLUSION. 


Some  montlis  Lad  passed  away,  since,  witli  sorrowing 
heart  and  streaming  eyes,  the  orphan  heiress,  Marie 
Morfontaine,  had  beheld  her  only  friend  entombed  in  the 
consecrated  ground  of  the  cloister.  It  was  now  lenfy 
June,  and  the  woods  and  meadows  of  Maubuisson  were 
emerald  with  verdure.  One  evenino;,  at  a  late  bour,  a 
solitary  horseman  stopped  at  the  lodge  of  the  convent, 
and  craved  entertainment  for  the  night.  Agreeably  to 
the  hospitality  of  the  age,  the  boon  was  granted ;  and 
yielding  his  weary  steed  to  an  attendant,  the  stranger 
strode  into  the  public  hall.  He  was  a  man  some  thirty 
or  forty  years  of  age, — with  an  erect  and  military  bear-  ' 
ing, — his  cheek  and  brow  bronzed  by  exposure,  and  his 
garments  soiled  by  travel.  His  face  was  sad  but  hand- 
some, and  a  mournful  brilliancy  burned  in  his  large  dark 
eye.  In  reply  to  the  friendly  inquiries  of  the  aged 
porter,  ho  stated,  briefly,  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  Paris, 
and  that  he  was  no  stranger  to  the  hospitality  of  Mau- 
buisson. lie  then  mentioned  the  name  of  the  Countess 
of  March e,  and  when  informed  of  her  decease  he  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands,  and  bowing  his  head,  his  form,  for 
an  hour,  was  convulsed,  with  suppressed  agitation. 

"And  Marie  Morfontaine  ?  "  asked  the  traveller,  sadly, 
' — at  length  raising  his  head. 

"She  is  a  guest  in  this  convent,"  replied  the  old  man. 
"  Would  you  speak  with  her?" 

A  gleam  of  joy  for  a  moment  lighted  up  the  woe-wcrn 
features  of  the  stranger,  stained  with  the  trace  of  tears, 

"Most  thankfully,"  was  the  agitated  reply;  "and  at 
once,  good  fatlier,  if  it  be  possible." 


THE  COXCLUSIOX, 


377 


Tlie  old  man  retired,  and  soon  returned,  conducting 
tlie  orphan  heiress,  Avhose  pale,  sweet  face  was  strongly 
contrasted  the  dai'k  rol)e  of  a  Beguine.  Tiie  tall  . 
ibrm  of  the  stranger  rose  as  she  approached;  but  it  Avas 
enveloped  in  the  heav\-  Folds  of  a  cloak,  and  his  features 
were  shaded  by  a  pilgrim's  liat. 

"  What  would  you  with  me,  Sir  Traveller?  "  asked  the 
sad  and  silvery  tones  of  the  orjdian. 

Tlie  stranger  trembled,  and  seemed  too  agitated  to 
reply  until  the  question  Avas  repeated. 

''Know  you,  ladj^,  Adrian  de  Marigni?"  he  asked,  in 
tones  suppressed  b\'  emotion. 

"Alas,  sir,"  was  the  mournful  reply,  "the  tomb  alone 
has  long  known  him  !  " 

''Yet,  should  I  say,"  murmured  the  stranger,  after  a 
pause,  "  that  Adrian  de  Marigni  yet  lives — " 

"  Impossible  !  "  interrupted  the  lady  sadh^,  shaking  her 
head. 

''Marie!"  exclaimed  the  strano-er,  throwiuQ-  aside  his 
hat  and  cloak,  and  extendino:  his  arms. 

For  an  instant  the  orphan  gazed  bewildered  on  those 
loved  and  longdost  features.  Then  remembrance  flashed 
on  her  mind.    That  face — that  voice! 

"Adrian!"  she  exclaimed:  and,  springing  forward 
witli  a  low  cry,  her  fainting  form  was  clasped  to  the 
broad  breast  of  her  lover. 

Yes,  it  was,  indeed,  Adrian!  Almost  by  miracle  had 
lie  escaped  the  awful  doom  to  which  he  had  been  con- 
signed,  on  the  very  eve  cf  its  execution,  and,  with  two 
companions,  fled  to  the  Cevennes,  in'the^mountain  prov- 


378 


THE  CON-CLUSION. 


ince  of  Lyonnais.  There,  with  a  large  number  of  other 
knights,  he  remained  concealed  among  the  cliffs  and 
caves,  until  the  final  abolition  of  the  order.  Then,  leav- 
ing his  retreat,  he  became  a  wanderer  in  other  lands, 
until  he  could  safely  return  to  his  own. 

Need  we  add  that,  before  a  twelve-month  had  elapjed, 
Adrian  de  Marigni  and  Marie  Moifontaine  were  united 
by  Holy  Church  never  to  part?  For,  though  one  bad 
been  a  companion  of  the  abolished  Order  of  the  Temple, 
and  the  other  had  been  the  inmate  of  a  Beguine  con- 
vent, neither  of  them  had  assumed  vows  forbidding  their 
union,  from  which  they  could  not  be  and  were  not 
absolved. 

Forsaking  the  scenes  which  to  both  recalled  so  much 
of  pain,  they  retired  to  the  extensive  and  beautiful 
estates  of  the  heiress  in  their  own  native  Normandy ; 
and  from  their  union  sprang  one  of  the  mosi  illustrious 
families  in  the  realm. 


THE  END. 


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